


learning curve

by demotu



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013-2014 NHL Season, 2014 Winter Olympics, Angst, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Family, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 70,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demotu/pseuds/demotu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Patrick, half the point of coming out was to finally be able to have decent sex. He just wasn't expecting it to be with Jonny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> There was a thing, on tumblr, where I wrote a seventy-thousand word fic in twenty-five tiny installments by accident, under the unfortunate and rather inaccurate working title of "secretly-a-virgin pat". All because I posted a snippet of the _very first thing_ I wrote for hockey fandom, a tiny porny first-time scene, that people--including me--liked enough to want to see more of. It was, however, supposed to be a lot shorter than this, but the story gained a life of its own, and hopefully enough depth to justify the ultimate length.
> 
> There was a lot of love from many wonderful people that made the nearly live-writing process survivable and a hell of a lot of fun, and then there was an amazing amount of hard work by [fourfreedoms](archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms) to beta it and encourage me to edit it into something I could be happy to post in the somewhat more official and readable format of AO3. 
> 
> And here we are! Nearly two months after I finished the tumblr draft, and five months after going "what the hell" and posting part one, here is the cleaned-up and slightly amended and newly-chaptered version of the once-called secret virgin fic. (That contains no technical virgins, fyi.)

~

In many ways, when Patrick stands in front of his team and says “I’m gay”, it feels like an ending. A decade of denial and lies, bookended by confusion and shame, over in an instant. His family knows, as does the organization, and he has less than a week until the whole world finds out, but hockey—hockey is Patrick’s life. And hockey is a team sport, in play and in culture. How his teammates react, what they say and what they _really_ think about having a gay teammate, is going to make or break his future on the Hawks, and Patrick is deeply, terrifyingly aware of it.

When he tears his gaze away from the wall a couple feet over Jonny’s head and meets Jonny’s eyes, Patrick’s caught off-guard by the frown on Jonny’s face. He feels his own mouth twist down, but Duncs speaks up before he can say anything.

“Wait, you’re kidding, right?” Duncs says, looking suspicious.

“Nope,” Patrick says. He rubs his thumb nervously over the 88 on his stick, braced against his knees. “It’d be kind of a shitty joke, don’t you think?”

“But you’ve dated girls!” says Shawzy, eyes wide.

Patrick gives a half-shrug. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Not anymore.”

“But—” Shawzy starts, but Seabs cuts him off with a loud sigh, standing up.

“Oh, for—Kaner, congrats,” he says, coming over and holding out a hand. “You need anything, let me know.”

“Thanks Seabs,” Patrick says awkwardly. “It’s not anything special, I’m just—”

“The first out NHL player?” Seabs interrupts, raising his eyebrows. “Takes guts, kid. We’ve got your back, whatever goes down.” The _we_ is almost threatening, and Patrick cracks a small grin.

“Cool,” Patrick says, nodding. “Hopefully it won’t be a big thing.”

Sharpy snorts, and comes up to clap him on the shoulder and then haul him in for a noogie. “Oh yeah, you’re totally not a big deal in this league,” he says into Patrick’s ear, twisting him into a one-armed hug and shaking him roughly. “Nobody’s even gonna notice.”

“Fuck off, Sharpy,” Patrick says, but the truth is he’s mostly trying to catch his breath from relief that Sharpy will still manhandle him tight in for a violent hug.

The tension in the room breaks with Sharpy’s roughhousing, as well, and it takes a little while for the rest of the guys to wander over and say their bit—sincere, if uncertain congratulations and poorly-hidden surprise both. The core, and the older guys, don’t seem more than surprised, but Patrick can see Pirri and Mo having a furtive conversation in their stalls, until they’re interrupted by Hoss ordering them out for practice. They nod at Patrick where he’s finishing lacing his skates, and Pirri gives him a sheepish smile when Patrick just rolls his eyes and gestures for them to get going. They’re young, and Patrick’s sure they’ll follow the lead of the veterans in the room.

Patrick takes a breath and looks down to knot his skates. When he stands, Jonny’s in front of him, watching as the last of the guys head out to the rink.

“You set?” Patrick asks, uncertain.

“Yeah, just about,” Jonny says, brow still furrowed. “Uh, congrats, man.”

Patrick shrugs. “Sure,” he says awkwardly. “It’s no big deal.”

“Right,” Jonny says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m gonna—” he gestures at the door towards the rink, and then disappears through it, leaving Patrick, uncertain and alone in the locker room.

~

Patrick isn’t naive or anything; he expected at least a few of his teammates to be awkward around him, if not outright hostile, after coming out to them. They live in each other’s pockets, share hotel rooms, shower and change together, and talk sex and girls and make cracks about sucking dick—part of the reason it works is the collective certainty that nobody’s actually interested. Patrick knows he’s breaking that deal. Erica made some noise about that being unfair, saying anybody who wasn’t okay with Patrick being gay was an asshole, but Patrick honestly gets it. He’s rocking the boat and it’s going to be weird, at least until everyone gets used to it.

Still, the unhappy looks Jonny keeps giving him in the days between coming out to the team and dropping the tell-all article catch Patrick off-guard. It’s not that he’d put Jonny up on some “definitely not a homophobe” pedestal, but… well, maybe he had. Patrick’s not sure why, when he thinks about it, except that Jonny has never, in all their years playing together, made a homophobic chirp. Maybe that was just him trying to be a good captain, though, and had nothing to do with how he really feels. It’s unsettling, and it sucks, because the rest of the team has been even better than Patrick hoped, but Jonny’s unexpected silence makes it impossible to appreciate the other guys’ loud—occasionally embarrassingly so—support.

The day before Patrick’s official, public coming-out (and ugh, he’s dreading everything about it, keeps telling himself the opportunity to actually pick up and date is gonna make the next few days—fuck, few months, probably—worth it, but in his anxiety-fueled state it’s hard to remember), Patrick can’t take it anymore. He follows Jonny home after a game, tired and strung-out and nervous, as much as for what Jonny’s going to say when Patrick calls him out as for tomorrow.

~

“What the fuck is _wrong with you_ ,” Patrick blurts out when Jonny opens his door, still in his shoes and blinking in confusion.

“Excuse me?” Jonny says, scowling. “What the fuck is wrong with _you_?”

“Oh no,” Patrick says, pushing inside and letting Jonny shut the door behind him. “You’ve been acting like an asshole all week, don’t turn this around on me.”

“I have not!” Jonny protests, folding his arms across his chest, his suit jacket pulling awkwardly at the shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“Ever since I came out to the team, asshole, you haven’t said three non-hockey words to me,” Patrick says angrily, stepping up and shoving Jonny with one hand on his shoulder. “You could have, I don’t know, _done your job_ and been a fucking _captain_ for three seconds.”

“I—” Jonny starts, gaping at him. “You, no, fuck this,” Jonny says. His surprised look twists as he unfolds his arms and shoves back at Patrick. “If you wanted me to back you up, you might have said something beforehand.”

“What?” Patrick asks, confused.

“What was I supposed to say?” Jonny says, throwing up his hands. “I was as surprised as every other guy in there when you came out, so sorry for not having some pre-prepared speech for when somebody I thought was my _friend_ comes out after, what six years of playing together?”

It’s Patrick’s turn to gape. “You’re—I don’t get it,” he says, biting at his cheek and looking up at Jonny, who’s actually glowering down at him now. “Are you pissed I didn’t tell you first?”

“Yes!” Jonny explodes. He shoulders past Patrick and down the hallway, leaving Patrick standing by the door, trying to reorient himself.

“So you’re not angry about it,” Patrick says when he follows Jonny into the kitchen. “I mean, about me being, you know.”

“Jesus fuck,” Jonny growls, wrenching open the fridge door and digging out a couple bottles of water. He tosses one at Patrick and slams the fridge door shut. “No, Patrick, I’m not angry about you being gay, what the hell kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Excuse _me_ ,” Patrick says, stung. “What the fuck was I supposed to think with you looking at me like I’d stolen a baby or something all week? I’m not a fucking mind-reader. You could have said something.”

“ _I_ could have said something?” Jonny says. “How about _you_ could have said something?”

“I came out!” Patrick says, twisting the cap off the water bottle and tossing it on the counter. It bounces twice and lands on the floor. “That’s pretty much saying something. You’re the one who’s been acting like I’m some… some fucked up _fag_.” His voice cracks at the end, and he sloshes some water out of the bottle across his hand where it’s gripping too tight, denting the plastic. He puts it down on the island, folding his hands closed to stop them from trembling.

“I…” Jonny starts, wide-eyed. He scrubs his hand across his face, comes up looking tired and more unhappy than angry. “Don’t _say_ that, I’m not—I’d never—”

“—you’re acting like it,” Patrick interrupts.

“Fuck,” Jonny says. He puts down his water bottle and comes towards Patrick until he can put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, tentative like he thinks Patrick’s going to flinch away. It’s not out of the question with all the tension that’s thrumming through Patrick, even though he’s pretty sure he got it all wrong. “I don’t care that you’re gay, Pat. I _really, really_ don’t. I’m just—we were roommates—”

“—oh, so that’s—”

“— _no_ ,” Jonny cuts him off loudly, fingers tightening on his shoulder. “I don’t mean I care about that. I mean you and I, we were… I thought you knew you could tell me this shit.” Jonny brings his other hand up to grip Patrick’s other shoulder and shakes him gently. “I’m not angry at you, I’m angry that you thought you couldn’t tell me this. Before.”

“Oh.” Patrick licks his lips. Jonny’s still frowning, but now that Patrick’s really looking, he can see it’s the same frown Jonny has after a game, the ones where he thinks he let the team down. “Oh,” Patrick repeats, anger bleeding out and leaving him unsteady.

Jonny lets go of him and starts to step back, but Patrick finds himself reaching out with both hands to grip at Jonny’s suit jacket and haul him in. Jonny makes a huff of surprise, but he lets Patrick reel him all the way in and then wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick presses his fists into the middle of Jonny’s back and says, muffled into his shoulder, “I didn’t tell anyone, man. Not until last month. It had nothing to do with you.”

“But—”

“Not even my parents. Not—nobody, okay? I didn’t,” Patrick says, voice cracking and he has to swallow, pressing his forehead more firmly against Jonny’s shoulder. “I didn’t even tell _me_ until this year, okay?”

Jonny stills against him, hands that had been rubbing aimlessly against Patrick’s shoulder blades pressing in. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Patrick thumps Jonny in the middle of the back with his fists and pulls away. “It wasn’t—it had nothing to do with not trusting you, okay?”

Jonny pulls his lips in, but nods, reaching for his water and opening it up. “Okay, I—I get it.”

“Good,” Patrick says. “I was sort of thrown with you being all weird about it.”

“Sorry,” Jonny mumbles. “I really don’t care. At all. I promise.”

“I hope not, cause you’re going to get a lot of stupid questions after tomorrow,” Patrick says. He takes a long drink and watches as Jonny does the same, and then adds, “Especially about the roommate thing.”

“Yeah, PR’s been talking to me,” Jonny says with a shrug. He leans back against the counter, cracking his neck. “It’s not gonna be a problem.”

“It’s…” Patrick trails off, taking another sip. He slides up onto one of the island stools and leans on his elbows, watching Jonny carefully. “I am kind of sorry? I never, like, _looked_. Not like that, not with you or any of the team.”

“Never?” Jonny says skeptically.

“No!” Patrick protests. “You guys are my friends, I wouldn’t—” but Jonny’s smirking at him and Patrick’s pretty sure he’s being played. “Asshole.”

Jonny’s smirk slides into a grin. “I don’t care if you looked.”

“You wouldn’t, you’re a fucking exhibitionist,” Patrick mutters, slouching back against the countertop. “Still didn’t look.”

“Sure,” Jonny says archly, finishing his water and tossing the empty bottle on the counter, next to six other empties he hasn’t moved into the recycling bin that’s right underneath the counter.

“ _Vain_ asshole,” Patrick says. He finishes his drink and gets up to shove Jonny aside and put his empty in the recycling, scooping the rest up off of the counter and throwing them out as well. He flinches when Jonny puts a warm hand on the back of his neck, but Jonny just squeezes firmly and then releases him.

“Sorry I made you think it bothered me,” he says, a little gruff like he always is when he apologizes.

“S’okay,” Patrick says quietly. “We good now, though?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says. “Always.”

~

Patrick’s really glad he cleared things up with Jonny before his public coming out, because Jonny reacts to finding out Patrick thought he was homophobic by being extremely, obviously supportive. Patrick’s pretty sure PR has chewed Jonny out more than once for his sarcastic responses to reporters. Jonny seems to be reveling in making it completely clear to every hockey fan who watches his post-game interviews just how stupid he thinks all the questions as to Patrick being in the room, his old roommate, in the closet, _whatever_ , are.

For his own part, Patrick’s been trying to deal with the questions with bland, meaningless answers or outright deflections, because PR is terrifying when you aren’t following their instructions. It sucks, and some days he wants to say “fuck it” and tell them they’re gossip-grubbing assholes who should back out of his business, but having Jonny saying the—slightly less inflammatory—things he’s thinking helps him keep his mouth shut. The media loves it, too, latches onto the idea of Jonny as his protective captain, as if it fitting their sports narrative makes everything acceptable.

They’re in Edmonton, smack in the middle of the circus trip, and for once Patrick’s got out of interviews. He can hear Jonny’s, though, across the room, as he peels off his gear and swallows down Gatorade, tired and dehydrated.

“Has the atmosphere in the room changed much since Kane’s announcement?” one of the local reporters asks. Nothing new there, nothing Jonny and Sharpy and Duncs and every other Hawk hasn’t answered a dozen times already.

“Yes, absolutely,” Jonny says, flat and dry, and Patrick pulls off his pads to hide his grin. “We’ve changed our post-game music to Mariah and Whitney and turn off all the lights before anybody changes.”

After, on the way to the bus, Patrick shoulder-checks Jonny. “You’re gonna get us all in trouble someday, asshole.”

“You’re welcome, fuckface,” Jonny says in response, wrapping him into a headlock and messing up his damp hair. Patrick struggles out of it, digging his fingers into Jonny’s ribs to make him let go.

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says, meaning _thanks_ , but Jonny already knew that anyway.

~

Pirri’s kicking everybody’s asses at Mario Kart later that evening in the lounge the hotel sets up for them, including a red-faced Jonny. Patrick’s too tired to fully appreciate the scene, and still feeling wound-up from the game, when Bollig drops down between him and Shawzy.

“Hey Shawzy, you and Roussel had a pretty serious conversation in the second,” he says, punching Shawzy lightly on the shoulder.

“Holy shit, that asshole,” Shawzy groans, leaning back into the couch. “He’s such a fucking cocksucker.”

Patrick can’t help tensing. It’s stupid, because he’s been listening to this for a decade and trained himself out of noticing, but it’s like coming out has put him back on high alert, every chirp on and off the ice hitting him like a punch to the gut. If he weren’t so worn out from the game, from the never-ending circus trip, he might be able to let it roll off his back, but as is he feels himself go hot and red and nauseous.

“Uh,” Bollig says.

“Should have told him to go back to sucking dick for a living,” calls Pirri from his victorious sprawl across from the television.

“That definitely would have gotten something going,” Shawzy says, grinning wide. “But he mighta taken it as an invitation, eh?”

Patrick stands up abruptly, tense as the room slowly goes oppressively quiet. He sees Pirri close his mouth, and Shawzy’s eyes go wide as he looks up at Patrick. Shawzy starts stuttering out an apology, but Patrick’s already halfway out of the room.

Patrick avoids making eye-contact with the couple in the elevator, and when he gets to the door of his hotel room, he fumbles with his keycard, dropping it on the carpet with a curse. He presses his sweaty palms to his thighs, shutting his eyes briefly before bending down to pick it up. The head-rush when he stands back up adds to his dizziness, and he leans heavily against the door, taking a few steady breaths.

“Hey, Kaner.”

Patrick turns against the door to see Jonny coming down the hallway. He really doesn’t want to talk right now. He wants to take a long, hot shower and forget all this shit. It wasn’t even a big deal, they didn’t mean any harm, it’s just—

“Pat,” Jonny says, gripping his upper arm. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Patrick says shortly, twisting out of Jonny’s grip and trying to get the keycard in the slot. He misses twice, and Jonny reaches out and snags the card from his grip, sliding it in and out and pushing the door open and then Patrick through it.

“Sure you are,” Jonny says, following him in and flicking on the overhead light by the door. “The guys didn’t mean it like that.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick says, kicking off his shoes and walking over to the bed. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You ran out pretty fast. Shawzy would have apologized,” Jonny says, following him into the room and leaning against the desk.

“It’s fine, whatever,” Patrick says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “They’ve been great, okay? Some stupid chirping isn’t the end of the world. It still—it still sucks to hear, okay?”

“I know.”

“You really don’t,” Patrick snaps. “It’s not tonight, okay? It’s fucking—years of listening to that shit. Even when I couldn’t admit I was gay, it still hurt every time somebody said something like that where I could hear.”

“Yeah, I _get it_ ,” Jonny says, tense and frowning.

“Really,” Patrick scoffs. “Cause you’re such a cocksucker, right.”

“Yeah.”

Patrick opens his mouth to say—

“What?”

“I, uh,” Jonny starts, turning red. He shifts against the desk, and then kicks the chair out and turns it around, sitting down hard. “I have. Done. That.”

“ _What_.”

Jonny scrubs a hand over his face and looks at Patrick, wide-eyed. “I’m, fuck, Pat. I’m really sorry, I should have said something before.”

“You’re gay,” Patrick says flatly.

“No! No, I just. I have. Slept with guys.” Jonny bites his lower lip and looks over Patrick’s shoulder.

“Are you kidding me? Why…” Patrick says, mind somehow blank and racing all at once. “Why didn’t you say anything? When I came out?”

“It seemed stupid?” Jonny tries weakly. “I haven’t since college, Pat. I like girls, so I—it seemed stupid to say _oh hey, me too_ , when it isn’t like that for me.”

“That is the dumbest thing you have ever said,” Patrick says, anger creeping up. “I’ve been doing this all alone and you never thought for _one second_ that it might help to know I wasn’t?” He’s standing by the end of it, yelling too, but Jonny just grips his knees and watches. “Say something, asshole!”

“I’m telling you now?” Jonny tries, looking up at Patrick. He’s looming over Jonny, hands fisted tight like he’s going to punch him—maybe he is, Patrick’s too furious to know right now. “I felt bad as soon as I didn’t, Pat, really. I didn’t know how to bring it up, later.”

“How many,” Pat says.

“How…?” Jonny tilts the chair back a bit, craning his neck to look up at Patrick.

“How many. Guys. Did you fuck.” Patrick grits out. Maybe it was just one guy, road handies in college or something. Maybe Jonny’s not even really bi, just flexible.

“I—five?”

“ _Five_?” Patrick shouts, and Jonny flinches, chair tilting precariously before he pushes up and stands up.

“Yeah, _five_ ,” Jonny says, and now he’s getting angry too. “What, are you jealous?”

Jonny doesn’t see the punch coming, they’re too close together, and Patrick gets him right in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and making him trip back into the chair. He bounces back up right away, red-faced and furious, and shoves Patrick back onto the bed, hands fisted in his t-shirt so Patrick can’t twist away as Jonny pins him. Jonny shoves a knee precariously between his legs as Patrick struggles to flip them, digging his nails into Jonny’s arm and shoving at his chest. Patrick takes a punch to the ribs and exhales, hard, before getting a foot under him on the bed for leverage and throwing Jonny off. Jonny’s grip drags them both to the floor in a crash of limbs.

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick says, rolling off Jonny and kneeling on the floor, breathing heavily. “Did you hit your head?”

Jonny winces and curls up, one hand coming up to his mouth and drawing away with a red smear on his fingertips.

“Just my face on your skull,” Jonny says, licking the blood off his split lip. “Asshole.”

“Sorry,” Patrick says, leaning back against the wall and pulling his knees up in front of him. “For the—I shouldn’t have punched you.”

“No,” Jonny says grimly. “But you’re right. I should have told you before.”

“It’s not actually my business,” Patrick says reluctantly, shivering a little from the adrenaline rush. You grow up in hockey, you get used to burning off steam and disagreements in fights, but Patrick didn’t join in much as a kid—too small, too outmatched, and too used to sisters. “Just because I came out, doesn’t mean you have to.”

“There’s not much reason to,” Jonny says with a sigh, tilting his head back against the edge of the bed, thumb pressed to his split lip.

“You weren’t into it or something?” Patrick asks. “But, like, five guys—”

“—I was into it,” Jonny interrupts. “But not more than girls, and then I was in the NHL, so…”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Five, though—dude. Way to get around.”

“Two were—one was at Shattuck, another a guy from Winnipeg, in the summer. Those weren’t really much, you know?”

“And the others?”

“College,” Jonny says, shrugging.

“Regretting not going right now,” Patrick says wryly, and Jonny cracks a bloody grin. “That’s really not fair, you know.”

“What’s not?”

“That you’ve had a shit ton more gay sex than I have. And you aren’t even gay.”

“Bi,” Jonny says firmly, like he needs to put it in words for Patrick. “I’m bisexual. And you really—you haven’t done much?”

“You could say that,” Patrick mutters, plucking at the fabric of his sweats.

“How much?” Jonny asks.

Patrick looks over at him with a frown, but Jonny just has a serious expression on his face, nothing mocking or judgmental. He’s not told anybody this, didn’t plan to. But then, part of the reason he was so furious at Jonny for not saying anything is that he didn’t know there was someone right here he could talk to. Someone who might not look grossed out or laugh and tell him it’s fine that he’s gay but _I don’t want to hear the details, dude_.

“Nothing,” Patrick says quietly, ducking his eyes.

“Nothing?”

“Zip. Nada. Zilch,” Patrick reels off. “I was really in the closet, man.”

“You have with girls, right?” Jonny asks tentatively, and Patrick has to roll his eyes at him.

“Yes, _Jonathan_ ,” Patrick says. “I have actually had sex. Just not with anybody I actually wanted to have sex with.”

“That sucks.”

“Fucking right,” Patrick agrees, looking back up at Jonny, who’s watching him steadily, no laughter or pity on his face. “That’s why I came out, honestly. I really, really want to fuck guys.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, smiling a little. “I’ll bet. You can, now, though.”

“After the circus trip, I’m going to hit up every gay bar in Chicago,” Pat declares, stretching out his legs and kicking Jonny in the hip. “I’d say you can come, but unless you wanna get outed…”

“No thanks,” Jonny says, dropping a hand to squeeze Patrick’s bare ankle. “That’d be a fucking mess, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, god,” Patrick says with a laugh, trying to picture it. “Dude, can you imagine?”

“I thought about it,” Jonny admits, scratching at the back of his neck. “When they kept asking me if I was pissed I had a gay roommate, of just being like, _no, cause then I’d be a hypocrite_ , but…”

“Yeah, no,” Patrick says, gulping down laughter as he imagines it. “Man, if you just said that and didn’t answer anything else, holy shit.”

“Right?” Jonny says, grinning. “They wouldn’t have known what to do, it would have been awesome.”

“I might have straight up punched you in the face, though,” Patrick says, wiggling his foot under Jonny’s warm grasp. “If I found out that way.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Jonny says quickly, sobering up. “That I let you think you were alone, that you’re doing this alone. You’re doing awesome, and I’m—” he breaks off, a little red, and Patrick nudges him with his foot. “I’m proud of you,” Jonny finishes, a little strangled. “A lot, because I don’t know if I could do what you’re doing and not go crazy.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, swallowing against his tight throat. “It means a lot.”

“It’s true,” Jonny insists.

Their gazes get caught on each other, making Patrick’s ears warm. He coughs and pulls his foot out of Jonny’s grasp so he can stand up.

“Gonna grab some ice for your mouth,” Patrick says, grabbing the ice bucket and heading for the door. “Don’t want it to bruise up.”

~

Patrick lingers in the lobby of Jonny’s condo for five minutes before the security guard’s confused glances propel him into the elevator. It’s after midnight, but not by much—Jonny’s probably still awake. Patrick still feels stupid for showing up here like this. When Jonny pulls the door open, he’s in sweats and a worn-out _Strength_ t-shirt, which means either he _was_ in bed and threw them on the answer the door, or was engaging in some extended couch time.

“Hey, sup,” Jonny says, voice deep and scratchy. Sleeping, then.

“Uh,” Patrick says, tripping over a pair of Jonny’s shoes as he steps into the foyer. Jonny catches him by the elbow, pulling him upright against his chest. “Wow, sorry,” Patrick adds, pushing his palm against Jonny and straightening up. “I’m kind of—”

“Totally hammered?” Jonny finishes with a smirk. “Yeah man, I can smell it.”

“Sorry,” Patrick says, sheepish. His hand is still on Jonny’s chest, he realizes, fingers pushing in unwittingly before he drops it and coughs. “I went out to a bar. A gay bar. A bar full of many very gay men. There was a lot— _a lot_ of booze.”

“Oh-kay,” Jonny says, clearly laughing at him. “Let’s uh, get you sitting down and then you can tell me all about it.”

“Sure,” Patrick says agreeably. He kicks off his sneakers and tosses his jacket on the bench, and lets Jonny steer him down the hall with a hand on his shoulder. Jonny pushes him towards the couch and disappears for a moment, coming back with a tall glass of water. He hands it to Patrick before he settles into the other part of the sectional. Patrick downs the whole glass and smacks it on the coffee table, loud enough to make Jonny wince at the crash of glass-on-glass.

“That was stupid,” Patrick says.

“Breaking my table?” Jonny asks.

“It’s not broken, geez,” Patrick scoffs, collapsing back into the couch. “I mean the bar.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Patrick sighs, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. It’s not as high up as his in Trump Tower, but it’s still pretty far away. “Dancing was fun. But, like, four guys tried to get me to come home with them.”

“Uh,” Jonny says, clearing his throat. “Isn’t that the point?”

“It _was_ ,” Patrick says. Whines, maybe, but whatever, he’s drunk. “But it was too… you know, I’ve gone home with _lots_ of girls and that’s never weird. Like, it’s a little weird? Also weird because girls are weird. Sex with them. But you go there and you fuck and then you call a cab and it’s all good.”

“But you didn’t want to with a guy?”

“No. Yes. I mean,” Patrick blows out a breath and looks over at Jonny, who’s got one foot propped up on the end of the coffee table, arms spread along the back of the couch. He looks good, shirt a size too small for his broad, early-season frame, sweats pulled across his hips like always, and Patrick immediately feels guilty for thinking it. Two hours of sizing up hot, sweaty dudes in a constant state of low-level arousal has put his brain onto one track, damn. He shakes his head, regrets it for the subsequent dizziness, and says, “What was the question?”

Jonathan laughs, the open one where he throws his head back and his cheeks dimple up. “Maybe you can tell me in the morning, drunky.”

“No!” Patrick protests, sliding down the couch so that he’s tucked in the corner next to Jonny. He prods him in the ribs with his toes, digging in sharply.

“Hey,” Jonny cries out, wrapping a hand around his foot to pull it away. Patrick kicks, and Jonny tightens his grip, bringing up his other hand to drag Patrick bodily down the couch, getting up to his knees. It’s half a tickle fight, because Patrick can’t coordinate much more, and half a wrestling match. Jonny gets Patrick’s wrists pinned beside his head without too much trouble, straddling his stomach.

“Oh god don’t sit on me there, I’ll puke,” Patrick gasps.

“Fine,” Jonny says, sliding back until he can drop his weight onto Patrick’s hips instead, leaned over to keep his hold on Patrick’s wrists.

“Uh,” Patrick says, freezing. He’s warm and drunk and has been horny for hours—for _years_ —and now Jonny is sitting on his dick and holding him down and oh god damn it, Patrick goes hot as his dick swells up against Jonny’s ass. Why the _fuck_ couldn’t whiskey dick be a thing he has. “Not a good idea?” he chokes out, shutting his eyes and feeling the flush rise across his cheeks.

“Oh!” Jonny says. He lets go of Patrick’s wrists and sits back—Patrick bites down on his lip at the added pressure—before climbing off. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“It’s not you, dude,” Patrick says, rubbing a hand across his face before sitting up. He slides back into the corner of the couch, elbows on his knees. “I’m just really fucking horny.”

Jonny barks out a laugh, thank god. “I guess that’s what you went out to fix, eh?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says morosely.

Jonny sits back down near his feet, and Patrick reminds himself not to kick him again. “Then why are you here? Instead of out picking up in Boystown?”

“I _tried_ ,” Patrick complains, pushing his hands through his hair. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about… I haven’t _done_ anything and I don’t know what I’d even like to do and there’s only so much conversation you can have with a one-nighter, you know? It’s embarrassing to be like ‘so I’m a lame-ass gay virgin’ or whatever.” He takes a breath and drops his forehead to his knees, mortified. “So I came here to wake you up and whine about it because you’re like, the closest thing I have to an actual gay friend, so. Sorry for your life.”

“Oh geez,” Jonny mutters, and Patrick snickers into his knees at it. “You could, I dunno, start small? Get your dick sucked or something?”

“Yeah, cause I’m really worried about whether or not I’ll like _that_ ,” Patrick says in a drawl, peering up to roll his eyes at Jonny. Jonny actually looks a little hurt, though, so Patrick shrugs and pushes forward. “I want—I want to try stuff. Except it’s stuff I don’t want to try with a stranger.”

“You could date?” Jonny offers.

“Gotta find somebody first,” Patrick says, biting on his lip. “Who knows how long that’ll take, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, leaning back. “I guess.”

He goes quiet, and Patrick curls up more comfortably, leaning his cheek against the couch, feeling sleepy and sorry for himself. He drifts, gut untwisting from the confusion of embarrassment and lust he’s been stuck in for the past few hours, as Jonny breathes loudly next to him.

“You awake?” Jonny says eventually, knocking his fist against Patrick’s knee.

“Yeah.”

“You want to get fucked, right?”

Patrick’s eyes snap open to meet Jonny’s, who’s watching him steadily with his lip pulled between his teeth. “Yeah,” Patrick says, too tired to deny it. “I really do.”

“It’s, um. It might be a horrible idea so if you say no, I get it,” Jonny rambles. Patrick pokes him in the hip with his toes again, and Jonny blushes. Blushes! “But we could do that. You could try it, with, uh, with me. I mean. Just to get it over with? With somebody you trust. Me, I mean.”

Patrick blinks, feeling abruptly much more awake. “You’ve done that.”

“I used to?” Jonny says, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and giving Patrick a wide-eyed, nervous look. “Not for years, but it’s not like I forget how.”

“You would _do_ that?” Patrick echoes, because that’s probably the first question he should have asked. “With me?”

Jonny shrugs, fingers curling around the back of his neck. It’s gone red with a deep flush, like Jonny’s come off a hard shift on the ice. “I like sex, it’s not like it’d be a hardship.”

“Right,” Patrick says blankly. “But—with me?”

“Well, it’s not like I get the chance to, to… you know. Fuck guys. Anymore.” Jonny blows out a hard breath and twists to face Patrick. “You’re my friend, Kaner. And a teammate. So say no if you don’t want to with me, or anything. I don’t want—we’re friends.”

“Course,” Patrick says. “Always, man. Uh.”

“If you’re not interested, it’s cool.” Jonny shrugs. Patrick eyes the curve of his shoulders under the thin t-shirt and wonders how much of this is drunk goggles and—no, this is Jonny. Patrick knows precisely, depressingly, how hot he is, even stone cold sober and in the middle of a smelly locker room.

“I don’t think it’d be a hardship for me either,” Patrick says slowly, licking his lips.

Jonny breaks into a grin, one that he tries to tamp down but fails. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, well.” Patrick rolls his eyes at him. “Don’t get a big head over it or anything.” Jonny waggles his eyebrows and opens his mouth and Patrick groans and covers his ears. “Don’t fucking say it, man.”

“Don’t set me up so good, then,” Jonny retorts.

“Asshole,” Patrick mutters, and Jonny grins widely at him. Patrick relaxes. “So you want to like, do this now?”

“Jesus, no,” Jonny scoffs, standing up. “You’re fucking wasted, man.”

“Oh, come on,” Patrick says, using Jonny’s outstretched hand to haul himself to his feet. The room spins, and Jonny laughs as he keeps Patrick upright. “Okay, maybe not.”

“I would never speak to you again if you puked on my dick,” Jonny says, tamping down on his laughter and adopting a very serious expression. “Sleep it off, man, and see if this isn’t just drunk-you talking in the morning. And if it is, that’s cool, okay?”

Jonny shakes him gently, and Patrick pushes him away. “Fine, fuckface. I’m not gonna change my mind.”

“We’ll see,” Jonny says. He’s such a tool, seriously. Patrick’s not sure why he’s going to let him stick it in, except, well. He’s Jonny, too. Somehow, it makes sense. It’s not like Jonny hasn’t been a part of all the best parts of his life, anyway. “Drink some more water, don’t drown in the shower. I’m going back to sleep.”

He knocks Patrick on the shoulder and leaves him in the living room. Patrick leans over carefully to grab his water glass and makes for the guest room. A shower sounds good, if only because the boner he’s been sporting since Jonny pinned him to the couch is going to get between him and his drunk-sleep.

~

Patrick wakes a little after eight, pulled out of it by a pressing need to piss but not much of a hangover. He stumbles to the guest room’s en suite to take care of business and brush his gross teeth, digging the toothbrush with “88” scrawled along the handle in black sharpie out of the drawer. Yesterday’s bar clothes are in a puddle on the floor, but they’re too gross to consider putting on, so Patrick makes his way to Jonny’s room in his boxers.

The precise content of their conversation last night rushes up in his mind when Patrick steps into the room. The curtains are half-open, so the grey morning light cuts long rectangles across the bed. It’s hard not to think of it, with the way Jonny’s sprawled out on his stomach, sheets tangled around his legs, his face turned away from the door. Jonny’s naked, which isn’t surprising—Patrick knows the boxer-briefs he wore in hotel rooms were only a concession to Patrick’s presence—and nothing about the spread of his shoulders, the dip at the small of his back, or the curve of his ass is new, but Patrick’s never seen Jonny naked when sex was on the table. Looking at him now, stretched out and breathtakingly fuckable, is enough to bring Patrick’s dick to half-mast in the space of a breath.

Jonny is crazy if he thinks Patrick is going to change his mind in the cold light of day. He shifts in his sleep, leg twitching. It rouses Patrick from his dumbfounded appreciation of his friend, and he looks away, suddenly embarrassed. Jonny didn’t offer to be ogled unawares, even if it’s something Patrick suspects he’d get off on. Patrick keeps his gaze averted while he digs out clean boxer-briefs (normal boxers “ruin the lines”, according to Jonny, who is a pretentious douchebag as often he is a dorky loser) and a henley from Jonny’s drawers, before he heads to the kitchen to start coffee and clear his head.

~

When Patrick’s downed a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee, he comes back and knocks on the open door, hovering out of view of the bed. There’s a muffled “what” from inside, so he takes his chances and steps inside. Jonny has blessedly rescued his sheets enough to make himself into a mockery of decent, lap covered as he sits up and rubs a hand across his pillow-creased cheek.

"I come bearing gifts," Patrick pronounces, holding out a mug of coffee.

"Whatimesit?" Jonny slurs, gripping the handle weakly and then cradling it between his palms. Patrick smiles. He’s missed morning Jonny, all incoherent and grumpy and easy to mess with. He’s not going to mess with him this morning, though. There’s too much uncertain, too much at stake.

"Almost nine," Patrick says, rounding the bed to sit on the far corner, legs crossed so he can lean his elbows on his knees. He grins broadly as Jonny works out how to coordinate both hands enough to get the cup to his mouth.

Jonny groans, taking a sip and shifting back to sit against the headboard. The sheet unfolds a little, enough that it doesn’t hide Jonny’s morning wood in the folds of it. Patrick flicks his eyes back up to Jonny’s face, cheeks a little red. God, how the hell is he so into this all of a sudden? He thought six years of exposure left him immune, but now that Jonny’s offered to fuck him, Patrick’s all but salivating at the sight of him.

Jonny smirks at Patrick and downs half his coffee in long gulps, throat steadily working to swallow. “Not taking it back, then?” he rasps when he’s done, because the fucker is too sleepy to enunciate but not to notice Patrick checking out his package.

"Are _you_?” Patrick asks archly, leaning back on his hands. It makes his own dick, swollen but still soft, press against the front of his borrowed boxer-briefs. Jonny’s eyes flick down, and Patrick feels a frisson of _want_ that makes his cock twitch and stiffen.

Jonny looks back up and rolls his shoulders, a challenge of a grin replacing the sleepy softness on his face. “ _I_ wasn’t drunk.”

Patrick blows out a breath and curls his fingers into the mattress instead of crawling over Jonny’s thighs to rub his dick against Jonny’s abs. “I know,” he says instead, sitting forward and pulling up his knees. “But you can still change your mind. I won’t hold it against you, if you’re worried it’ll, I dunno. Fuck something up.”

Jonny tilts his head, lips pursed. “I’ve slept with friends before, you know,” he says. “I’m not going to be confused about this, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

"Yeah?" Patrick says. "Like, guy friends?"

"Yeah. I mean, most of the guys I—it’s not like I ever really had a boyfriend or anything."

"Oh, right," Patrick says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It hadn’t occurred to him to think of Jonny’s history with men like that, because Jonny’s always been a serial monogamist about women. At least, the ones he sees more than one night. "It’s just sex, right? I mean, we’re not girls."

Jonny snorts. “Pretty sure that’s the point here, eh?”

"Oh, fuck off," Patrick says, rolling his eyes. "Be nice or I’ll take your coffee away."

"No!" Jonny yelps in mock-horror, shielding his mug behind an arm. "You wouldn’t. And also," he adds, voice dropping down a register, "I’m planning on being pretty nice to you."

Patrick does not shiver. “Yeah?” he says, flushing at the crack in his voice. He licks his lips and tilts up his chin to meet Jonny’s gaze. “When’s that gonna happen?”

Jonny’s eyes are dark. The skin of his neck pinks up as he presses the tip of his tongue into the corner of his mouth. “Today, if you want.” Patrick nods dumbly, stomach tight with anticipation and nervousness. “Not yet, though,” Jonny adds. “I need a shower, and we should eat. But if you don’t have anything else today—”

"I think I can pencil it in," Patrick says, trying for flippant as he climbs off the bed to put some space between them. "I’m going to make some eggs, you want?"

"Please," Jonny says mildly. He slides his feet to the floor, depositing his mug on the bedside table, and stands up, sheet pooling onto the bed beside him. When he passes Patrick, he drags his fingers along Patrick’s hip, flashing him a small grin and then disappearing into the bathroom. Patrick takes a breath and drops his head, staring down at the press of his erection against cotton. God _damn it_.

~

Jonny comes into the kitchen just as Patrick’s splitting the pan of scrambled eggs between two plates, thankfully dressed in track pants and a heathered grey t-shirt. It feels weirdly like a morning after, and not what it is—either a morning before or the same shared breakfast that always happens when one of them sleeps over. Jonny pours himself another mug of coffee and comes round the island to where Patrick’s laid out forks and glasses of water for both of them.

"Voila, eggs," Patrick says with a flourish, sliding Jonny’s plate in front of him. "Even if you don’t deserve them."

"Why wouldn’t I deserve them?" Jonny says, brow furrowed.

"Because you’re a god-damned cocktease, that’s why," Patrick snaps back with a grin.

"Oh, so sorry for coming into your bedroom while you were naked and half asleep and leering at you—oh wait," Jonny says, deadpan. "That was you."

Patrick reaches out and pushes on the side of Jonny’s face with his palm. “Hey, pretty sure you made the invitation,” he says, fighting off Jonny’s retaliatory shove. “But if you don’t want to put out, man…”

"What the hell," Jonny says, suddenly intent as he grabs Patrick by the wrist. "How many times do you want me to offer?" Patrick frowns and tries to twist away, but Jonny tightens his grip and boxes him up against the counter instead. "Do you want me to take it back or something? So you don’t have to?"

"No!" Patrick protests, the edge of the counter digging into his back as he leans away. "I—"

"You what?" Jonny says challengingly, pressing in closer.

"I want to, I swear," Patrick bites out. "But… are you really interested? Not in fucking, in fucking _me_.”

Jonny’s face smoothes out, like he’s surprised. He opens his mouth, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth, before shutting it with a click, head tilting to the side. “Do you want me to tell you I think you’re pretty or something?”

"Fuck, no," Patrick scoffs, pushing at Jonny’s shoulder. Jonny stares him down, unmovable, and Patrick sighs, slumping back against the countertop. "Okay, maybe I want you to tell me your dick thinks I’m pretty."

Jonny’s eyebrows go up, and then he grips Patrick’s hips with his hands, pushing him sideways and forcing Patrick to grab the edge of the counter to keep his balance as Jonny hauls him up onto a stool. Patrick makes a sharp noise when Jonny’s hands slide around to cup his ass. Jonny tugs him forward until Patrick’s thighs are pressed tight to Jonny’s hips.

"What—" Patrick starts, and then cuts himself off with a curse when Jonny pushes up on his toes and rocks in, the hot, hard press of his dick against Patrick’s. "Fuck."

Jonny does it again, thumbs digging into his hipbones and fingers splayed wide on Patrick’s ass. Patrick drops his head back with a gasp. His own cock fills rapidly, giving Jonny something solid to rub up against, but as soon as Patrick’s all the way hard, Jonny lets go and pulls back.

"Happy?" Jonny says. Patrick is, almost as much for the roughness of Jonny’s voice and the dilation of his pupils as he is for the, well, _hard_ evidence that Jonny’s as into this as Patrick is.

"Uh," Patrick says, fingers flexing on the granite. "Yeah."

"Good. Eat your fucking eggs," Jonny says, looking murderous and flushed and Patrick wants to eat him instead, but Jonny just slides into his stool and picks up his fork like he didn’t just do—do— _that_.

After a moment, Patrick takes a deep breath and twists in his stool. “Cocktease,” he says, under his breath. Jonny looks at him sideways, mouth open to protest, but when Patrick starts laughing, the corner of Jonny’s eyes crinkle up until he’s snickering over his eggs as well. “Eat your eggs before they get cold,” Patrick commands, gasping for breath as Jonny shakes with laughter next to him. “And fuck me later or I will fucking fuck you up.”

“As you wish,” Jonny says, managing a serious-enough tone that it sets Patrick right off again.

~

Jonny doesn’t bring it up right away. Instead, he turns on the PS3 and challenges Patrick to several games of NHL 14, which serves to at least calm Patrick down enough that he’s not popping one every time Jonny so much as looks at him. It’s completely crazy, how mad Patrick’s been with it. It was bad enough right after he came out and finally felt like he could think about sleeping with men, but with Jonny sitting next to him, the anticipation is something else. It’s not until they’re halfway through their second round that Patrick’s able to focus on the game, instead of the warm press of Jonny’s shoulder into his.

After their third game, just as Patrick’s decided Jonny’s probably got some master plan to push the whole thing back to the evening, Jonny puts the controller down deliberately and leans back into the couch, looking sideways at Patrick. “I’m clean, by the way.”

Patrick freezes. “Uh—okay? Me too.” He makes a face. “It’s been a while, since. You know.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, inscrutable. “I’ll use a condom if you want, but—”

“No, it’s good,” Patrick says hoarsely, fingers clenching tight around the controller. The last thing Jonny would ever do is fuck up his or Patrick’s health. “I’d—you shouldn’t use one.”

“Okay,” Jonny says, flush high on his own cheeks, but otherwise he doesn’t look nervous or embarrassed at all. “You have to tell me what you want,” he adds.

"What I want?" Patrick says. "Uh, I thought—"

"You want me to fuck you, yeah," Jonny says. "We’ll do that, but is that it? Do you want to try anything else?"

"I don’t know," Patrick says blankly. _Why_ hasn’t he been thinking about it? He could have been making lists of everything he wants to do with Jonny today. Instead he’s just been walking around in a haze of arousal. "I just—I don’t know."

"Nothing?" Jonny says, sliding his arm behind Patrick’s shoulders as he stretches both of them along the back of the couch. "Do you want me to like, try stuff? Or do you want to take the lead?"

"I…" Patrick trails off, wetting his bottom lip as he considers. He thinks about how he’s been looking at Jonny for the past several hours, the past several _years_ , all that golden strength untouchable. He thinks about how long he’s kept his eyes down, not from Jonny but from _everyone_ , hands tucked away and gaze averted, and his fingers itch with the need for it to be over, to have _permission_. “Can I—I kind of just want to touch. You, I mean.” He colours, rubbing a hand across his hot cheek, and glances sideways at Jonny. “Pretty lame, eh?”

"It’s not," Jonny says, seriously. "You can."

"Okay," Patrick says, tossing the controller into the side of the couch. "You can, too. I mean, this doesn’t need to be just straight-up fucking, right? Like, technically-speaking." God damn, he’s burning up trying to say this, but Jonny just presses his hand between Patrick’s shoulder blades, sliding up the tense muscle to knead into the skin above his collar.

"Wouldn’t be much of a first time if it was, right?" Jonny says softly. He trails his fingers up Patrick’s neck until they’re curled at the base of his skull. Patrick shivers as Jonny rubs his thumb into the soft skin behind his ear. "This should be fun, alright?"

"Alright," Patrick manages, reaching out to press his hand into Jonny’s thigh. Jonny shifts as Patrick slides his hand up the slippery fabric of his track pants until he can rub his thumb into the jut of Jonny’s knee. He licks his lips and tilts his head sideways at Jonny, mouth curling into a grin. "Now, then?"

Jonny stills his fingers on Patrick’s neck. Jonny’s eyes are warm and dark, and Patrick swallows. “Yeah,” Jonny says, trailing his fingers down Patrick’s spine as he pulls away to stand up. “Coming?”

Patrick stares up at him, suddenly awkward. He rubs his hands against his own knees. This is _Jonny_ , his friend, his teammate, and it’s overwhelming and overwhelmingly strange how much he wants to touch him and be touched by him. Patrick swallows, throat tight as he stands up.

"Last chance to back out, eh?"

Jonny frowns and shakes his head. “Jesus, no. You want to stop, _whenever_ , you fucking say so.”

"I won’t want to," Patrick says honestly. "Once we’re—I’m not gonna want to stop. That’s why—last chance. For me."

"Patrick…" Jonny says, looking concerned. Patrick just takes a deep breath and cracks a grin before pushing past him, towards the hallway that leads to Jonny’s bedroom.

"C’mon," Patrick says, looking back at Jonny over his shoulder. "Let’s do this."

~

Jonny strips for him, easy and anything but shy. He lets Patrick lie him out on the bed to touch. It’s weird, at first, watching Jonny’s eyes flutter shut as Patrick touches him all over, but Jonny’s calmness is contagious, and Patrick stops wondering at the strangeness and starts reveling in how hot this is. It’s not that Patrick’s never noticed how gorgeous Jonny is—he’s gay, for fuck’s sake, and Jonny has spent a lot of time naked around him—but he’s never thought about touching for real. To be able to press his fingers to Jonny’s pecs, squeeze his hands around his thighs, drag his fingernails along his hips, and watch Jonny’s dick swell and twitch in response is—it’s a lot, whatever it is.

When Patrick pushes at Jonny’s knees, Jonny spreads them easily, shifting back against the pillows to watch with hooded eyes as Patrick kneels between them, breath even but audible through his parted lips. Patrick kind of wants to get his mouth on Jonny, but he also doesn’t want to look away and miss how Jonny bites his lip when Patrick slides the tip of his index finger around Jonny’s pulled-tight foreskin. Patrick drops his fingers down to rub at Jonny’s balls, and that’s—Patrick feels his own pull up, his skin going hot. Dicks are one thing, but you see a lot of dicks in his line of work, and rubbing a thumb between Jonny’s balls makes it seem so much more _real_.

“You can—” Jonny says, biting his lip as Patrick pushes two fingers down, pressing firmly against his perineum.

“That feel good?” Patrick asks, voice rough. He coughs, trying to clear it.

Jonny shifts against the bed, sliding his feet up to spread his legs. It’s an invitation, and Patrick goes hot all over. His own dick bobs between his thighs, demanding, but Patrick ignores it, bringing his other hand down to slide under Jonny’s ass. He presses his thumb into the firm muscle and pulls him open.

“I,” Jonny starts, hips shoving up. “Fuck.”

“Can I?” Patrick asks, dragging his fingers down until they’re resting lightly at the top of Jonny’s entrance.

Jonny’s flushed, hands splayed out beside him on the bed, opening and closing like he wants to move, but he just nods. Patrick lets go and reaches out for the lube, squeezing it into the palm of his left hand and then coating the fingers of his right. He lets the rest drip down his palm, rubbing his thumb in, and then smears it in between Jonny’s cheeks, spreading them apart with the dry tips of his fingers.

Jonny waits—the idiot—until Patrick’s pushed all the way in with one finger, to say, “I’ve never done this part.”

“What,” Patrick says, looking up from where he was watching Jonny’s hole clench around his middle finger. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” says Jonny, pulling back his knees with his hands, opening himself up to Patrick even more. “Just to other guys.”

Patrick exhales, and leans over to knock his head into Jonny’s ankle, a little dismayed. “Warn a guy, why don’t you.”

Jonny shrugs, an awkward gesture, folded back into the pillows. “I’ll tell you if I want you to stop. Just—we can both try something new.”

“You’re insane,” Patrick says, but he can’t tamp down on the smile as he feels a surge of affection. “Tell me if I do anything wrong.”

He picks back up again, working another finger in, rubbing his thumb around the rim, twisting his wrist to push deep and press inside until Jonny groans and turns his cheek against the pillows, flushed all the way down his chest.

“Should I?” Patrick says uncertainly, when Jonny lets out a sound that could be pain.

“No, no,” Jonny pants, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s—Patrick.” He shudders when Patrick curls his fingers in, pressing firmly against Jonny inside.

“Wow,” Patrick says softly, pushing a third finger against Jonny’s rim, just a suggestion of pressure. “You’re really into this.”

“Fu-uck,” Jonny groans, one knee dropping a little as he moves to grip his own cock. “C’mon, another, please—”

“Yeah,” says Patrick, working it in. He stills them when he’s got all three squeezed together. Jonny _whines_ , and Patrick shudders. He’s got to—god. He presses up against what must be Jonny’s prostate, rubbing in tiny strokes, and pushes his thumb in hard below Jonny’s balls.

Jonny cries out, tightens his fingers around his dick and shoots _everywhere_ , shoulders pressing into the bed as he arches against Patrick’s hand.

“Holy shit,” Patrick says, entranced by how he can see Jonny’s hole clench around his fingers. The sight is somehow even hotter than the feel of it, the rhythmic pulse in time with the press of Patrick’s fingers, how Jonny spasms one last time when Patrick draws his fingers out.

“Holy shit, I need to come so bad,” Patrick says, wrapping a hand around his dick, feeling desperate.

“Wait,” Jonny gasps, his trembling legs falling beside Patrick. Jonny rubs his hand across his mouth, still shuddering.

“I know you were gonna fuck me,” Patrick says, dropping his free hand beside Jonny’s hip, still jerking off. “But, uh. I think I kind of fucked up that plan. You sure you’ve never done that before?”

Jonny laughs, sounding a little hysterical, and sits up on his elbows. He’s flushed and sweaty and so gorgeous. Patrick has to squeeze hard to stop from coming at the sight of him. “If I’d known _that_ was gonna happen, I wouldn’t have let you.”

“Too late now,” Patrick says. “Even if you have a superhuman dick, this,” he gestures at his own, “will wait for no man.”

Jonny rolls his eyes—coming back to himself, then—gets his knees under himself and pushes Patrick back until he can get his mouth on Patrick’s dick and suck him hard and fast. It’s the best Patrick’s ever felt, coming in Jonny’s mouth with a yell, smearing lube across Jonny’s shoulder where he’s latched on. He’s always figured a mouth was a mouth, but it turns out getting sucked off by somebody your dick is properly into is a million miles from the perfunctory, closed-eyed experiences Patrick was used to.

“I’m still gonna fuck you,” Jonny says, hoarse, when he sits back up. Patrick watches him, hazy and loose, as he leans off the bed (god, that ass, he can’t believe he got his fingers in there) and finds his boxers on the floor. “Go wash off, I’ll make some smoothies. We’ll take a breather and come back to it.”

Patrick usually makes a point of pushing back when Jonny takes over, makes plans and gives orders like it’s his God-given right, but frankly, that plan sounds too good to argue with right now.

~

Patrick isn’t all the way hard anymore, but it doesn’t matter, it isn’t even the _point_. It hurts a bit, it feels weird as hell, but it also feels like he’s floating in this space where all he can do is take it and all he wants to do is take it. And shit, Jonny isn’t holding back anymore, one hand pressed to the top of his ass, thumb drifting down to pull his cheek aside, the other wrapped tight around his thigh, pulling back each time Jonny fucks in. Patrick mouths wetly at his own bicep, head turned into his arm as he gasps with it.

"Pat, shit," Jonny gasps out, thrusting in until his hips are right up against Patrick’s ass. The width of his dick prying Patrick open is unescapably, viscerally good. Patrick groans hard into spit-damp skin, hands clawing into the sheets. “D’you want, should I?” Jonny says, actual sentences seemingly beyond him as he slides the hand on Patrick’s thigh over to his balls, nudging his dick.

"No," Patrick manages, dizzy. "I’m, I’m—it’s good man, just _fuck me_.”

"Fuck," Jonny says, but obliges with long, slow strokes that leave Patrick shivering every time Jonny pulls back out, his hole clenching, and then moaning on each push back in. Patrick lets his arms stretch out above him to push against the headboard, chest falling into the bed and face pushing into the sheets.

"You look like a porn star, Jesus," Jonny says behind him, both hands around his hips now to keep Patrick from sliding down into the bed.

"You’re fucking me like one," which is probably not the greatest chirp Patrick’s ever come up with but he really, really doesn’t care. "Just do it hard man, you gotta wanna—"

And yeah, Jonny clearly does, because he groans loudly and picks up the pace, getting a good, quick rhythm that feels like never-ending friction to Patrick, no pauses or hesitations, just the continuous stroke of Jonny’s dick into his hole. It feels like forever in a really fucking good way, but it probably isn’t even a minute until Jonny swears and slams in hard, nails digging in as he comes inside Patrick.

And holy shit, _holy shit_ , Patrick’s dick wakes right back up at that; the sound of Jonny’s orgasm, the feel of Jonny’s balls tight right up against him, the hard clench of Jonny’s hands on his hips lighting him up like a goal light. When Jonny pulls out and sits back, Patrick pushes himself up and goes with him, hand on his own cock and ass in Jonny’s lap.

"Unf," Jonny huffs, but he spreads his hands inside Patrick’s thighs and hitches him up. Better still, he grabs the lube from beside them and upends it to squeeze out way more than Patrick needs right over his cock as Patrick works it hard.

"Oh _god_ ,” Patrick moans, head dropping back on Jonny’s shoulder.

"Liked that, huh?" Jonny says into his ear, lips catching and sending sparks down Patrick’s spine. And somehow coming has brought Jonny’s voice back, and then some, because he keeps _talking_ as Patrick jerks off. “Knew you’d look perfect like that, Patrick, ass up and taking my cock. You couldn’t even keep your mouth closed, slobbering all over yourself like you wanted another dick in you, one to suck on, right? Shoulda put your fingers in your mouth so I could have watched you lick them while I fucked you.”

Patrick lets out a sob. Each filthy word is a physical touch of breath, hot against Patrick’s skin, and makes his dick throb harder under his hand. His thighs tremble as Jonny wraps his hands around them to hold him spread.

“It wasn’t a bad view,” Jonny goes on. “Watching my dick disappear in you, so god damned tight I’d have known you were a virgin even if you’d never said. So hot, Pat, getting to take you first.”

"Holy shit, Jonny," Patrick says weakly, trembling at the words, the feeling of Jonny plastered against him and mouthing at his ear, the slickness of his hand on his overstimulated dick.

Jonny lets go of his thighs and wraps an arm tight around his waist. He lets his other hand slide under Patrick’s drawn-up balls, pressing lower until they push against his sore, slick asshole.

"Leaking my come all over me, so fucking filthy," Jonny says, and that is _it_ , Patrick’s shooting off, weak spurts of come as he works his fingers around the head and hard stutters of his hips under Jonny’s arms.

They breathe together for a few moments while Patrick shudders through the last of it, sinking down more fully onto Jonny’s thighs. Jonny presses his forehead into Patrick’s shoulder, stroking Patrick’s thighs while he comes down from his orgasm. Eventually Jonny stills his hands, and then presses in hard before he pushes Patrick off his lap and crawls up the bed to collapse. Patrick follows suit, face-planting back into the bed with a muffled “fuck” and a laugh.

"My legs are killing me," Jonny grumbles. Patrick turns his head to see Jonny shaking them out and pushing his thumbs into the muscle of his thighs.

"You’re a hockey player, Jon," Patrick says with a laugh, twisting onto his side. "Pretty sure your conditioning can handle this. Or maybe you need to step it up at the gym, huh?"

"Yeah right, I could fuck your ass all day, I just wasn’t expecting you to sit on me."

"Boo hoo, cry some more about the totally awesome sex you just had with me."

Jonny gives him a considering look and like the totally predictable asshole he is, says “I guess it was all right. I mean, it was your first time. Can’t expect you to be great at it right away.”

"Dude,” Patrick protests, pushing up on his elbows. “You came with my fingers in your ass, and then _in_ my ass like, an hour later. Don’t even front, I was everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

Jonny rubs a hand across his face, the one not shiny with lube, and then rolls his eyes at Patrick. “The things I do for you, seriously.”

Patrick frowns, because what. “Jesus man, it’s not like I forced your hand. It was your idea.”

"Yeah, no, I wasn’t," Jonny says confusingly before swinging his legs off the bed and standing up. "It was great, you were good, I was just kidding. You want first shower?"

Which, okay, that’s probably what he’d been wanting Jonny to say, but Patrick still feels like he was waiting for something more. He has no idea what, though, so he just shrugs and struggles upright. “You’ve got two showers, dude, but I should probably, uh, take the closer one.” Because yeah, he can totally feel that he’s leaking. Jonny’s bedspread is already a goner, but he’d probably like to keep it out of the hallway.

"Right, sounds good," Jonny says evenly. He isn’t actually looking at Patrick’s face when he says it, but he doesn’t say anything more as he grabs a pair of sweats from the floor and leaves the bedroom.

"Okay," Patrick says with a slow breath out. Nice to know Jonny’s still a total weirdo post-sex.

~

"Hey," Jonny says quietly, bumping up against Patrick as Patrick piles his plate with ham and eggs and fruit from the buffet. "How you feeling?"

Patrick glances at him. Jonny’s determinedly not looking at Patrick as he loads up his plate with an unnecessary amount of precision. “Pretty good,” Patrick says slowly, not quite sure what answer Jonny’s looking for here. “It’s New Jersey, I think we’ll match up well against them.”

"I meant about—not the game, the, you know," Jonny mumbles, following him down the buffet. Patrick pops two slices of toast in the toaster and waits Jonny out. He’s pretty sure he knows where this is going, but it’s usually funnier to make Jonny say it. "Like, are you going to be good to skate today?" Jonny finally asks in a rush.

Patrick laughs, elbowing Jonny in the ribs as he reaches out to put his own bread in the toaster. “Wow, man. Don’t get too cocky or anything.” Jonny gives him a wounded look and steals Patrick’s browned toast as it slides out. “Hey, motherfucker,” Patrick says, trying to grab it back without tossing the rest of his food on the floor, but Jonny just spins away and heads for an empty table.

Patrick rolls his eyes and takes Jonny’s toast when it’s done and follows him over. “I’m fine, Jesus,” Patrick says as he slides into the stool. “Like, I can feel it, but it’s nothing that’s gonna slow me down.”

"Good," Jonny says shortly, like Patrick’s actually offended his dick.

"Oh, for—" Patrick blows out a breath, and laughs at Jonny’s grumpy expression. "I was just kidding. Your dick was plenty satisfying, okay?"

Jonny’s eyes widen and he glances around, but they were the first in and there are just a few guys over by the buffet. “Shut up, Kaner,” he hisses.

"I ain’t ashamed," Patrick jokes as Seabs and Duncs head over to their table. Patrick leans towards Jonny and gives him wide, sad eyes. "Are you trying to hide our true love, baby?" he croons.

Seabs laughs and slides in next to Jonny, throwing an arm around his shoulders as Jonny buries his face in his hands. “Something you two kiddos want to tell us, eh?” Seabs says loudly, dropping his plate on the table with a clunk.

"Oh god," Jonny mutters. He twists out from under Seab’s arm and leans over his plate, scooping eggs onto his toast with his fingers.

"Jonny and I are eloping to Canada," Patrick says, popping a grape into his mouth and chewing obnoxiously.

"Why elope?" Duncs asked. "They’ve got gay marriage in Illinois now."

"Yeah, we can just head down to city hall before the pre-game nap," Seabs adds, thoughtful. "Duncs and I will be your witnesses."

"Jonny said he’d never marry me unless it was in Winnipeg," Patrick says with a sigh. "The things I do for this loser."

"I don’t think it counts as eloping if you go to one of your hometowns," Duncs says.

"Whatever," Patrick says, waving a hand dismissively. "The point is I clearly am the one making the sacrifices in this relationship."

"Jonny, Jonny, Jonny," Seabs says, shaking Jonny by the back of his neck. "What did I tell you about the importance of compromise in adult relationships?" He sighs. "I miss the days when you listened to me."

Patrick grins and settles into his meal as Jonny squawks out a protest that he’d never listened to Seabs at all. Jonny was right—this isn’t going to mess with their friendship at all.

~


	2. two

~

It mostly isn’t weird, after that. Patrick doesn’t tell Jonny about how he’d gone home afterwards and jerked off twice more that night thinking about it. Honestly, he’d spent most of the rest of the day in something of a stunned daze. It shouldn’t be surprising; he’s been waiting for years for this. The longing to touch and fuck and be with another man was a desire so permanent and ingrained that now that he’s done it, he’s not quite sure how to believe it.

It’s not like it hadn’t been everything Patrick had been hoping for, and then some, but it’s as if now that he’s done it once and knows how right it is, he can’t stop thinking about it. If it was that good the first time, what’s it going to be like when Patrick knows what he’s doing? And they might have made two rounds, but there’s still so much Patrick wants to try. He wants to rub his dick against Jonny’s thigh until he comes, or flip Jonny over and eat him out, or suck Jonny off and have him come all over his face.

Or, well, he wants to do all those things with a man, period—Jonny’s just jumped from teammate to prominent jerk-off fantasy by virtue of being Patrick’s sole reference point for gay sex right now. Patrick wants to switch his flight from Buffalo to Winnipeg and show up at Jonny’s door and do it all over again, but _that_ would be weird. Because that was just Jonny being a friend—a friend who goes above and beyond the call of duty, but a friend nonetheless. The last thing Patrick wants to do is make it awkward by confessing that once wasn’t enough to try everything he wants, not when Jonny’s expecting him to go out and start hooking up for real. It’s a good thing, then, that he gets three whole days over Christmas away from everything to cool his heels and get his head on straight. Figuratively speaking, that is.

~

"Blow jobs," Patrick blurts out when Jonny opens the door to his hotel room, a week and a half later. Okay, maybe he is going to make this weird. He bites down on his lower lip as Jonny blinks at him sleepily in his underwear and an unzipped hoodie.

"What?" Jonny says, scrubbing across his face. "Why aren’t you asleep?"

"I know," Patrick says, pushing into the room and letting the door shut heavily behind him. They’ve got early skate before their game against the Islanders tomorrow, but his brain hasn’t been able to shut up since they got back from the break, and he’d been heading down the hall to Jonny’s room before he knew what he was doing. "I’ve just been thinking—you sucked me off, right? But I didn’t return the favour or anything, so." Patrick hovers at the end of the bed, shifting from foot to foot.

Jonny shoves his hands into the pockets of the hoodie, frowning at Patrick. “Uh, pretty sure you got me off first,” he says reluctantly, like it pains him to admit that Patrick might have done anything better than him. “’Sides, it’s not like sex should be tit for tat or whatever.”

"I know," Patrick says with a sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed heavily. "Okay. Maybe it’s more that blow jobs are a pretty important thing to be able to do. If I’m going to be, you know, hooking up and shit. It’s not like hook-ups get right to assfucking all the time, right?" He blushes, picking at the seam of the bedspread nervously.

"You want… to practice?" Jonny asks slowly. "On me."

"If it’s weird…"

"It’s a little weird," Jonny says. "Woah, hey," he says as Patrick stands quickly and starts for the door, embarrassed and wondering why the hell he thought this was a good idea, messing with their one-time deal for this. Jonny blocks the door and stops Patrick with a hand on his arm. "I wasn’t saying no."

"It’s too weird," Patrick mumbles, head turned down so he’s got a perfect view of the cut of Jonny’s abs and the light trail of hair curling down towards the waistband of his underwear. "I shouldn’t have asked."

"No, you can," Jonny says, walking Patrick backwards and then pushing him down to sit on the bed. Jonny sits down next to him and rests a hand on Patrick’s thigh, rubbing in what he likely intends to be a soothing manner. Soothing has never been Jonny’s forte. "I was just surprised, that’s all. I thought you just wanted to get it over with the first time."

“I thought so too,” Patrick says, looking sideways at Jonny and licking his lips. “But I guess once wasn’t enough or something. You really don’t mind?”

“Well, if you think you’ll be _bad_ at it,” Jonny drawls, catching Patrick’s arm as he tries to elbow Jonny in the ribs. “C’mon, you’re offering to suck my dick, like I’m gonna say no.”

Patrick twists out from Jonny’s grasp and stands up, turning and sliding to his knees between Jonny’s spread thighs.

“Woah,” Jonny says, hand coming up to rest on Patrick’s shoulder. “You wanna—now?”

Patrick slides his hands up the inside of Jonny’s thighs, feeling him shiver as Patrick’s fingertips slide under the edges of Jonny’s boxers. Jonny’s skin is hot and smooth, and Patrick wants to press his face to it and bite in. “Let me do this,” he says instead, thumbs rubbing in slow circles as Jonny stares down at him. “I gotta try it, you know?”

Jonny tongues at his bottom lip, eyes black in the low light of the hotel room. “Wait,” he says roughly, sliding back from Patrick, up the bed, but before Patrick can protest Jonny’s back with a pillow, which he drops beside Patrick. “Don’t wanna hurt your knees,” he explains. Patrick rolls his eyes but pulls the pillow under him anyway—and yeah, that is more comfortable, maybe Jonny’s right about that.

Jonny leans back on his hands, knees spread wide so Patrick can sit up between them and splay his hands around Jonny’s hips, forearms resting along Jonny’s thighs as he considers how he wants to go about this. Jonny’s abs twitch as Patrick draws his thumbs along his obliques and down to the waistband of his boxers, curling them under the elastic and peering up.

“You sure?” Patrick asks.

“Are you serious?” Jonny says disbelievingly. And, okay, Patrick can see that Jonny’s dick is certain, half-hard and bulged up against the black cotton in front of him. Patrick leans in and slides his cheek along the hot length of it, feeling it swell up as he presses his open mouth to the covered cockhead. Jonny’s silent under him, his stomach tense under his fingers as Patrick mouths around him, licking at the stretched fabric until it’s gone dark and damp.

Patrick pulls off, sitting back on his heels. “You can tell me what you want,” he says, pulling at Jonny’s boxers until Jonny lifts his lips so Patrick can work them off. Patrick leans back so Jonny can bring his legs together and get them off entirely, and then pushes Jonny’s thighs open again to settle in close. “You should,” he adds, thumbing at Jonny’s balls and curling a hand around the base of his dick. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“You’re doing good,” Jonny says, twitching as Patrick slides his thumb and forefinger up to pull at his foreskin. He drags it down carefully, exposing the flushed head of Jonny’s dick. “Not—not too far,” Jonny says tightly. “Pulls weirdly.”

“Kay,” Patrick says absently, sliding it back up and trying for a smooth, short rhythm that makes Jonny shift under him. When a bead of precum wells up at the tip, he leans forward and drags his tongue across the head to taste.

“Jesus,” Jonny exhales.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” Patrick points out, lips rubbing along the smooth skin of Jonny’s cock.

“Yeah, exactly,” Jonny grumbles, and then inhales as Patrick sucks the head of his dick into his mouth. “Oh, like—” he starts, then cuts himself off as Patrick works his tongue along Jonny’s dick inside his mouth, exploring the heavy warmth of it. When Jonny doesn’t go on, Patrick pulls off. “What?” Jonny says, frown gracing his lips.

“I want…” Patrick trails off, cheeks warm. He pulls his hands back and rubs one across his wet lips. “You should tell me what to do.”

“Yeah?” Jonny asks, biting down on his lower lip. “You want me to show you how I like it?”

Patrick flushes but holds his ground. “Yeah. Please.”

“Okay,” Jonny says. He brings up a hand to curl around the base of Patrick’s skull. “I can do that.”

Jonny takes Patrick at his word and walks him through what, to Patrick, seems like the slowest, most teasing blow job he’s ever experienced. Not that he’s ever been on this side, but Jonny doesn’t want it deep, insists it’s really not what he likes when Patrick protests that he can try it. He wants it wet and soft and with a lot of tongue, instead. Jonny jerks himself slowly while Patrick mouths at the head, his fist coming up to push against Patrick’s slick lips. When Patrick slides out his tongue to lick along Jonny’s fingers, his rhythm stutters.

"Yeah, nice," Jonny murmurs, pushing his thumb up over the head of his dick so Patrick has to widen his mouth and take it in. Jonny lets go of his dick and slides his thumb into the corner of Patrick’s mouth and then under, pressing into his tongue and forcing Patrick’s mouth wider. "Fuck." He pushes back against Patrick’s jaw, and Patrick slides off, panting. Patrick’s not out of breath so much as he’s dizzy with how hard he is in his sweats, but he’s too focused on Jonny’s dick to do anything about his own.

Jonny takes an uneven breath and rubs his thumb along Patrick’s lower lip, staring down at him. “You good?” he asks, fingers sliding along Patrick’s neck. Patrick shudders, eyes blinking shut.

“Yep,” he says roughly, sliding his hands along Jonny’s warm thighs and leaning back in, licking up the underside of Jonny’s cock and then wrapping his lips around it. Jonny groans and squeezes his fingers around the back of Patrick’s neck.

“Okay, get it wet—like, yeah, like that,” Jonny says as Patrick slicks up his cock with spit, tongue sliding out and around it. “Wrap your lips around your teeth, and make it tight— _yeah_.” Jonny breathes out and shoves up as Patrick follows his instructions and slides firmly down Jonny’s dick until it’s hot against the roof of his mouth. “Suck it, like that, up and down. Up more, c’mon, Pat.”

Jesus, his voice is hot. Patrick makes small, needy noises as he sucks Jonny’s dick, fingers digging in tight to Jonny’s broad thighs. He draws one hand down and in to rub his thumb across Jonny’s balls and press lower, firm against Jonny’s perineum, and Jonny’s hips ride up again. Jonny full-on moans when he gets his hand back on the base of his dick and starts stroking in time with Patrick’s steady rhythm.

“You look so good like that,” Jonny says. Patrick shuts his eyes and shivers, and _yeah_ , Jonny doesn’t shut up, mouth running like it did last time “Giving it to me exactly right, just like I asked, so good, babe.” .

Patrick goes hot and desperate with his mouth full of cock. He shoves his free hand down his sweats and grabs his dick, making tight strokes as he sucks Jonny off, listening to the filth pouring out of Jonny’s mouth.

“Getting off on my cock in your mouth, huh? Don’t come, don’t come,” Jonny pants, hips pushing up as Patrick slides his tongue up under the head and licks at the slit, and then works back down. “I’ll—god, _fuck_.”

Patrick’s not sure why he wasn’t expecting it, but he chokes on the first spurt of come. Jonny tries to shove him off but Patrick wants it, he wants _all_ of it, the whole experience. That’s the whole point of this, the reason for asking in the first place. He pushes against the hand on his shoulder and sucks hard, lips pressed tight against his teeth as Jonny stiffens under him. When his mouth is full and Jonny’s hand has gone lax against him, Patrick pulls back and swallows, licking along his teeth curiously. It doesn’t taste like much on his tongue.

“Get up here,” Jonny says roughly, and Patrick looks up dumbly before getting his shit together and realizing Jonny might be up for returning the favour.

“You don’t have to,” he says. He levers himself up off the floor, wincing as his knees pop.

Jonny rolls his eyes and tugs him onto the bed, pushing Patrick up it and then rolling him on his side towards Jonny. Patrick frowns, confused, until Jonny curls down and folds an arm under his head so he can pull Patrick’s dick out, hook the waistband of Patrick’s sweats under his balls, and swallow him down.

“Jesus,” Patrick says faintly, because however Jonny likes _getting_ blown, he’s perfected this deep, strong suction that feels like dying. Patrick’s determined to appreciate it, this time, instead of shooting off before he can think, so he slides his fingers into Jonny’s hair to slow the pace. Jonny takes the hint and pulls back, letting Patrick set the rhythm, fingers curled loosely around Patrick’s bared hip.

It’s almost… intimate. Or, well, sweet, Patrick supposes, because everything they’ve been doing has been intimate, in one way or another. Patrick leans up on his elbow and watches. Jonny’s eyes are shut and he’s letting Patrick rock into his mouth, forehead pressed against Patrick’s stomach, his legs folded up to keep his feet on the bed. Patrick rubs his hand through Jonny’s hair and down his neck, stroking gently, and watches as his dick disappears again and again in between Jonny’s soft red lips.

“Wow,” Patrick says, unable to help himself. Jonny’s eyelids flicker, and he makes a questioning noise. Patrick just tightens his hold on the back of his neck and fucks in a little deeper. Jonny’s fingers spasm on his hip, but he shifts on the bed to change the angle and stays with it. It leaves Patrick’s dick pushing against the back of his throat, and Patrick chokes out a “damn” and comes hard, shuddering as Jonny’s throat works to swallow against the head of his dick.

Jonny rolls onto his back, heels on the bed as he breathes hard. “Good?” he rasps, fingers rubbing at his throat. Patrick reaches down to tug his sweats back up, dick catching wetly against the waistband and making him twitch.

“Do you even have to ask?” Patrick says wryly, flopping back onto the pillows. “You really know what you’re doing there, man.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Jonny says, shrugging against the sheets and then sliding up the bed to straighten out his legs.

“So you did, like, a lot?” Patrick asks, turning his cheek on the pillow.

“Hm?” Jonny says. He rubs a hand sleepily across his eyes.

Patrick licks his lips; they’re a little numb, still, swollen from pressing against his teeth. “You said you never had a boyfriend, but those guys, they weren’t just once or anything?”

“Oh,” Jonny says, rolling his shoulder into the bed. “No. Well, a couple of them. But not the—the last guy was, I dunno. We fucked around for a while.”

“What’s a while?” Patrick asks, curious.

Jonny looks over at Patrick; his eyes are heavy with sleep, lips as red as Patrick’s must be. Patrick bites down on his own as Jonny frowns and says, “Pretty much my whole second year at UND.”

“Geez,” Patrick says, startled. “That’s—and you weren’t dating?”

Jonny’s mouth twists and he looks back up at the ceiling. “No, god. He was—no.”

“How’d you know him?” Patrick asks, wanting to know how Jonny managed to be in college and fuck guys and not get outed.

“He played on the Sioux,” Jonny says, voice deep with sleepiness. “He was a senior, and sort of out to a few people. Wasn’t going to go pro or anything.”

“So you didn’t want to date or anything?” Patrick guesses. “Because you weren’t out?”

“No,” Jonny says. “No, I would have—it just. He didn’t want that, it was fucking, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Patrick says awkwardly. “Friends with benefits.”

“Yep,” Jonny says. He sits up suddenly, pushing himself off the bed and grabbing his discarded boxers. “I’m gonna piss, and sleep. Got an early start tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, struggling upright. “Yeah, sorry, I’ll go back to mine.”

“Sure,” Jonny says, voice flat with tiredness. “See you tomorrow.”

He disappears into the bathroom, door shutting loudly behind him. Patrick frowns, uneasy, and digs his keycard out of his pocket. The sleepiness that had eluded him earlier is rapidly finding him, and he’s sure the last thing Jonny wants is to have to share his bed with him. Patrick makes his way back to his room and is out within a minute of his head hitting the pillow.

~

"Are you worried about being in Russia, what with their anti-gay laws and you being a prominent gay athlete?"

Patrick blows out a breath and leans back in his stall—it’s the first time he’s been asked this question since being officially named to Team USA, and he can’t go the same route as before. Disambiguating that he’s just hoping he’ll have the honour of playing for his country, and that he’ll cross any bridges when he gets to them… well, they’re here now. “I’m not worried for my safety,” Patrick starts slowly, tugging on the back of his hair uncomfortably. “And I’m not worried about my game.”

"But what about the media restrictions?" the reporter asks, persistent. "It will be illegal for you to mention your sexuality in public."

"Honestly, that might be a nice break," Patrick says, flashing a grin at the laughter, but he tamps down on it quickly. "But seriously, I’m not worried for me. The people who really are suffering from these laws aren’t Americans who get the honour of participating in the Olympics, and then get to come home and not be afraid. It’s the gay and lesbian Russians who are told their own country is scared of them and thinks they shouldn’t be seen."

"Are you planning on making a statement?"

"I’m…" Patrick chews on his lips, tries to think of how to say this without stirring up a shit storm. Maybe that’s impossible, though—maybe that’s the point. "I’m planning on going and playing hockey. I’m not gonna mack on a guy at centre ice, but I think going and playing my game is going to be a statement anyway."

"How do you mean?" Tracey asks, at his shoulder.

"I mean, I’m out, right?" Patrick asks rhetorically, gesturing at the mics and phones clustered in front of him. "Loud and proud and I’m pretty sure if you google me, it’s top of the hits. And last I checked, they have internet in Russia, right?" There’s a murmured, amused-sounding assent, and he takes a breath and goes on. "So maybe I can’t get on Russian TV and talk about being gay, but I’m going to be on TV anyway, playing my sport, and everybody in Russia is going to know anyway, no matter how much the government wants to hide it. That’s—that’s the best statement I know how to make. If there are gay kids in Russia who watch the games and know I’m gay, and see that it doesn’t mean I—or they—can’t play, maybe it will help." He shrugs, looks over at the reporter who’d asked the question. "Or maybe it won’t. But it’s the most I know how to do."

"Do you think other hockey players—or athletes in general—have an obligation to be out to support the cause?"

"No," Patrick says shortly. There’s an awkward pause when he doesn’t go on, but fuck it—he’s answered that one before, they can deal. Laz steps in to redirect the conversation back to some of the other guys on Team USA whom Patrick has played with before, a softball he can answer easily, and Patrick takes it gratefully.

~

Jonny shows up early in the afternoon and doesn’t even come in from the hallway before he says, “Do you think I should come out?”

"Uh," Patrick says, staring at Jonny. It’s snowing outside, and Jonny’s wool coat is flecked with melting snowflakes. His hat is damp between his clenched hands as he stands there, tense and frowning. "What?"

Jonny pushes past him and starts unbuttoning his coat, tossing his gloves and toque onto Patrick’s side table. “Do you think I should come out?” he repeats, enunciating like Patrick hadn’t understood him the first time.

"Because of Sochi?" Patrick asks, cluing in. "Did you see my interview or something?"

"Yeah," Jonny admits, taking the hanger Patrick thrusts at him and settling his coat onto it after a couple false starts. "Hoss said they asked you about Russia again."

Patrick shrugs. “I never know what they want me to say.”

"It was a good answer," Jonny says seriously, sliding his coat into the cupboard and turning back. "But—you didn’t answer the last one."

"About if I want other guys to come out?"

"Yeah."

"I have before," Patrick says, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the wall.

"Yeah?" Jonny asks, uncertain. Patrick supposes he hasn’t been watching every one of his media scrums. "What did you say?"

"That it’s a personal choice, and a life-changing one. I’m not going to tell anyone else they should make the same decision I did."

"Is that just a line?" Jonny asks.

"No," Patrick says, and sighs at the skeptical squint Jonny gives him in response. "It’s not a lie."

"But it is a line," Jonny insists, following Patrick down the hall into the living room, where Patrick had been fucking around on Facebook on the couch. "You can’t tell me you don’t wish there was some other guy who was out, too."

"Of course I wish there was someone else," Patrick says shortly, shutting his laptop with a snap and sitting down. "Of course I wish somebody else went first, or took some of the heat off me now, or made me look like less of a special fucking snowflake."

"Kaner—"

"And I really wish some big brawny enforcer would do it, too, because you know what sucks the most?" Patrick says, voice getting loud, but he can’t stop, even as Jonny stands stock still, expression intent and upset. "Hearing people say ‘well of course Patrick Kane’s gay, he’s always been soft for a hockey player’."

"Nobody’s saying that—"

"Jesus Christ, be more naive, why don’t you," Patrick snaps. "You wanna come out, fine. Good for you. You’ve never been called pretty, you’ve never been called Candy Kane. You won’t get people speculating your drunk stupidity was because of your repressed gayness. You’ve never been chirped about your dick-sucking lips and your goldilocks curls while lining up at the dot, and most of all you _still fuck girls_ , so it’ll probably go just fine for you.”

"Guys say that?" Jonny asks, looking stricken. "I mean, still?" Because even he’s not stuck in his head enough to think that hockey players don’t make those chirps ten times a game by rote. "I’ve never heard it since—not since you came out."

"They’re quieter about it," Patrick says, sighing and sinking back into the couch, suddenly exhausted. "But of course they do. It’s hockey."

"Who?" Jonny demands.

Patrick shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

"Sure it does."

"No," Patrick says firmly. "I’m not telling you."

"I’m your captain, we’re your team. If somebody’s messing with you—"

"It’s nothing special, just chirping."

"But—"

"Leave it, Tazer," Patrick says forcefully. "Please." Jonny bites down on his lower lip hard, fists clenched beside him like he wants to hunt down and beat up ever asshole who’s ever chirped Patrick for being gay. He’d miss a lot of hockey, if he did. "I don’t need you to defend me," Patrick says more quietly.

"Maybe I want to," Jonny answers. Patrick flushes, not entirely sure why, and Jonny comes to sit down next to him, close enough to press their knees together. "I… you shouldn’t have to do this alone."

"I’m not," Patrick says. "Having you to talk to this last few weeks, it’s been… it’s helped a lot. You don’t need to come out to support me."

"I will if you want me to," Jonny says, and Patrick knows it’s not a challenge. Jonny isn’t bluffing. If Patrick says ‘yes’ Jonny will book the press conference and schedule an appearance on Ellen and tell the world he’s bi. Even if it’s ancient history, at this point, regardless of whatever he and Patrick have been doing. But Jonny’s never been serious about guys, and asking him to complicate his life just so Patrick can point at somebody else and say, ‘see, not just me!’ isn’t something Patrick could stomach doing.

Patrick shakes his head and reaches up to shake Jonny by the shoulder. “Nah, it’s good. It’d only be messy for the Hawks to have to put up with both of us making waves in the press.”

"If you’re sure," Jonny says doubtfully.

Patrick smiles, unbidden, and leans over to press a kiss to Jonny’s cheek, his scruff rough under Patrick’s lips. Jonny flushes, twisting his head to stare as Patrick pulls back. “You’re an awesome friend, dude,” Patrick says fondly, gripping Jonny’s shoulder tight. “I appreciate the gesture, okay?”

Jonny nods, still pink. Patrick’s feeling warm and generous and can’t stop himself from offering something he’s been thinking about for weeks. “Hey, do you want me to fuck you?”

Jonny chokes on air and pulls away, shifting along the couch as he coughs and tries to catch his breath. “What?”

Patrick grins and flicks Jonny on the side of the neck before dropping his hand to the couch between them. “Well, you seemed pretty into it that first time, so I thought maybe you’d like to try the whole thing the other way. Like you said, it’s not like you get a chance to fuck guys, and you’ve been, well, helping me out, so….”

If Jonny was pink before, he’s straight-up scarlet now. “I don’t—you aren’t—uh,” he stutters, one hand going up to rub nervously at his neck.

"Oh, come on," Patrick cajoles, sprawling into the corner of the couch and spreading his arms along the back of it. "You know you want to. And hey, it’d be another thing for me to practice, right?"

Jonny goes still, and then lets out a long, slow breath. It must be the right thing to say, because the look he gives Patrick is narrow and determined. “Alright,” he says tensely. “But not on a game day.”

"Duh," Patrick says, rolling his eyes. "Tomorrow? I’ve got plans with my folks in the afternoon but they’re flying out at seven."

"I’ll come by at eight," Jonny says, standing up and brushing imaginary lint off his pants. "That work?"

"Sure," Patrick says. He lets Jonny show himself out. No point in pushing if the idea embarrasses Jonny—he’s said yes, so he’ll follow through. Once in, Jonny never does anything halfway.

~

Jonny’s twenty-five minutes late the next evening, which is pushing it even for him. Patrick’s just beginning to think Jonny might wuss out when he shows up, tossing a plastic bag at Patrick and peeling off his gloves.

"I’ve got lube, man," Patrick says dubiously, pulling out the—classy, of course—black tube and staring down at label.

"This is the good stuff," Jonny says, hanging up his coat. He’s in that grey henley he favours and dark-wash jeans that are just a little bit too small. Patrick wants to push him up against the door and slide his hands all over him. "The shit we used last time was all right, but this is better."

"Nothing but the best for Jonathan Toews, eh?" Patrick says with a grin. Jonny gives him a pained look, and Patrick laughs and throws the lube at his face, making him catch it and scowl deeper. "Hey, you want a beer or something?"

"Yeah, okay," Jonny says, trailing after Patrick to the kitchen.

Patrick cracks a couple bottles of the Goose Island IPA he knows Jonny likes—and might have bought this morning on purpose. Jonny takes one, an amused expression on his face, and says, “I’m already a sure thing, you know. You don’t have to butter me up.”

"Well," Patrick says, leaning back against the counter and taking a swig of beer. "Guess it’s just my turn to be nice to you."

"Great," Jonny says dryly, leaning over the island on his elbows, beer cupped between his palms. "Except you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing."

"Hey," Patrick protests. "You didn’t have any complaints last time."

"Your fingers aren’t the same," Jonny says easily. Patrick doesn’t get how he can go from awkward and shy to open and easy about sex, at all, but he’s been doing it enough to give Patrick vertigo.

"Uh, yeah, my dick is definitely bigger," Patrick says, trying for arrogant—and it is the truth—but Jonny just rolls his eyes at him and tips up his beer for another sip.

"More that it’s not, you know, fucking prehensile," he says, waggling his fingers around the neck of the bottle. "You’ve never done it with a chick, eh?"

"No," Patrick admits, fingers going tight around his own beer. "No, I—I tried not to do much, with girls. Just get them off, try and get off myself, you know."

Jonny doesn’t, but he nods seriously anyway and stands up straight. “But this has been better, right?”

"Shit, yes," Patrick says, fast enough he goes red. He takes another drink in order to avoid meeting Jonny’s gaze. He keeps his head tilted back when he drops the beer back down by his hip, sliding back on his elbows until the small of his back is pressed to the edge of the counter. "Yeah," he says more quietly. "It’s—god, Jonny, I never want to stop. It’s that good."

Jonny is silent for long enough that Patrick looks down again. He’s come halfway around the counter and stopped, an inscrutable expression on his face. Patrick smiles at him, lopsided, and tries to make it less weird. “Pretty lame, eh? Best sex of my life and it’s with you.”

"I..." Jonny starts, glancing down at his feet and then back up, looking determined. "If it’s too weird, we don’t have to—we can stop. You don’t need to do this."

"Uh, what?" Patrick says, putting his beer down and pushing himself upright. "Are you—what did you just hear, man? This is good, I’m really fucking enjoying it."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts, Jesus," Patrick huffs out, stepping into Jonny’s space and poking him in the chest. "Or, like, your butt. And mine. But seriously," he adds hastily when Jonny scowls at him. "I really want to. I just meant it’s lame that I’ve done so little that the best I’ve ever had is with a friend, okay? But it’s not like I’ve got the time to go out and meet anybody else, so no, I really don’t want to stop. Okay?"

Jonny chews on the inside of his lip, warm brown eyes fixed intensely on Patrick’s from a foot away. Patrick lists forward a little, wanting to tug Jonny’s mouth open with his teeth—but that’s exactly the kind of thing he shouldn’t be doing if he doesn’t want to fuck this up. Jonny’s twitchy enough over it, even if it’s just being nervous about losing his ass virginity. Instead, Patrick reaches up between them to twist Jonny’s nipple sharply.

"Ow, fuck," Jonny says, startled. He grabs Patrick’s hand and twists him up against the fridge door. Patrick tries to get his other hand up Jonny’s shirt but it gets trapped between their stomachs as Jonny pushes up flush against him. Patrick makes a small sound, and Jonny freezes. "Oh," Jonny breathes, fingers curling tight around Patrick’s wrist where he’s got it pressed beside Patrick’s head. He rocks up deliberately, one thick thigh sliding between Patrick’s, and Patrick’s eyes fall shut. When Jonny’s lips brush against his earlobe, Patrick shudders, dick twitching between them.

"Guess you do want it," Jonny says hotly in his ear, thrusting along Patrick’s hip and forcing Patrick to ride his thigh. "You gonna show me what you learned?"

"Dick," Patrick pants, working the hand between them around to grab at Jonny’s ass. Jonny shoves up hard when Patrick slides his nails across one cheek and then grabs on tight. "Gonna make you crazy for it."

Jonny steps back so quickly Patrick’s knees almost forget to hold him up. He pulls his shirt off in one slick, rippling motion, dropping it to the floor and smirking at Patrick. “Prove it,” he says, and god damn, it is _on_.

~

Patrick remembers to grab the lube where Jonny’s left it on the counter before putting his hand to the small of Jonny’s back and pushing him towards the bedroom. Jonny resists, just to be a dick, leaning back against Patrick. Patrick presses up against him and bites into his shoulder, more punishing than sexy, and Jonny shivers and says, “Okay, okay, bedroom.”

This time Jonny watches him, lying back on the bed, while Patrick strips, his khakis and plaid shirt and t-shirt landing on the floor. He hesitates on his boxers, but Jonny just tilts his head, so Patrick kicks them off as well. It’s strange, crawling up over Jonny’s jean-covered legs, naked and vulnerable, but if Jonny’s gonna take it this time, Patrick’s going to make sure he’s comfortable.

"Hey," Patrick says softly, fingers going to the button on Jonny’s fly to pop it open. Kneeling over Jonny’s thighs like this, with Jonny leaning back on his hands, he can look down instead of up. Jonny tilts his chin and looks back, close enough Patrick can see the fine lines where his eyes crinkle up when he smiles. He’s not smiling now, just watching Patrick with parted lips. His breath ghosts over Patrick’s cheek as Patrick looks down to work open his fly. "You good?"

"Yep," Jonny says, dropping back onto his elbows.

"You sure you want to try this?" Patrick asks lightly. He slides his fingers along the soft bulge of Jonny’s dick where it’s pressed against his briefs. "You gotta—you’re not doing this so I can try being on top, right?"

"God, no," Jonny says with a snort, head tipping back as Patrick strokes his dick between the open V of his fly. "I want to. Last time was—"

"—mind-blowingly awesome?" Patrick asks with a smirk.

"Enlightening," Jonny says drily.

"You’ve really never done it this way?" Patrick asks, shifting down Jonny’s legs to work his jeans off his hips. It’s no easy task. Jonny drops his shoulders to the bed to hook his thumbs in the waistband to slide them down, underwear going with. Patrick rolls off so Jonny can sit up and pull them off.

"No," Jonny says, peeling off his socks. "Never got as far as this with anybody but Ethan, and he wanted it the other way." Ethan, Patrick presumes, being the senior Jonny fucked for a year in college.

"But you’ve like, fingered yourself, right?" Patrick asks, dubious. "I mean, even I’ve done that."

Jonny shakes his head and drops back to the bed. “Nope. Didn’t think I’d be into it.”

"Nice one, buddy," Patrick mocks, curling his hand around Jonny’s dick and squeezing tight. Jonny rolls his eyes, but he bends his far knee out to the side so Patrick can slide his fingers down into the warm space between his thighs. Patrick rubs his knuckles along the soft skin of the inside of Jonny’s thigh, a teasing drag back and forth that has Jonny’s dick jumping in his palm.

Jonny spreads his legs a little wider and shoves Patrick’s arm. “Stop fucking around,” Jonny says.

Patrick rolls his eyes at him and crawls back between Jonny’s legs, sliding his hands under Jonny’s knees to push them up and out. As much as Patrick wants to flip Jonny over and run his hands all over Jonny’s ass, he wants to be able to watch Jonny’s face while he opens him up. It was a hell of a show, last time.

The lube’s up by Jonny’s head where Patrick tossed it, so Patrick plants a hand next to him and leans over. His dick slides over Jonny’s, and Patrick’s inhale is echoed by Jonny’s, distracting him from the lube. Patrick drops his other hand next to Jonny’s shoulder and stares down at him as he rubs his dick along Jonny’s, lip caught tight between his teeth.

"Jesus, you’re hot," he says when Jonny flexes to work back up against him. "Gonna have to keep fucking athletes or I’ll be disappointed after this."

Jonny arches against him once, hard, and then pushes him back with one hand on Patrick’s chest, groping for the lube with the other. “Get on with it,” he says shortly, throwing the tube at Patrick and propping his head on his arm. Patrick rolls his eyes again but cracks it open.

It’s hot as shit, the way Jonny reacts with a ripple of tension when Patrick slides the wet tip of his index finger across his hole. He breathes out as Patrick feeds his finger inside, a forced relaxation that makes his knees drop to the bed so that Patrick’s kneeling in the diamond of Jonny’s legs. Jonny’s tight, but he took three so fast last time Patrick doesn’t hesitate before adding more lube and pressing back in with two, curling them up to seek out Jonny’s—

"Shit, don’t," Jonny gasps out, trying to twist away on the bed. Patrick follows, pulling him back to the bed with a firm hand on his hip as he presses deeper inside, working his knuckles against Jonny’s clenched cheeks.

"Don’t what?" Patrick teases, lips curving into a grin. Jonny’s neck is flushed and Patrick watches as it spreads down his chest. His nipples are dark and pebbled up and so, so lickable.

"Oh, oh," Jonny pants, pressing his face into his own bicep as Patrick rubs the pads of his fingers along that hot, slicked-up smoothness. "No, god," Jonny says, sounding desperate. He reaches down blindly and grabs Patrick’s wrist.

"Too much?" Patrick asks, stilling his fingers as Jonny’s clench around his wrist.

"I, fuck," Jonny says, chest heaving. "I don’t want to come so fast. As last time."

"You can," Patrick says. He rubs his thumb lightly against Jonny’s balls. "It’s hot, man. We can go another round, like then."

Jonny shakes his head, breathing evening out now that Patrick’s not working deliberately inside him. “I don’t know if I’ll want you to fuck me after,” he says. “Just—just do it, okay? I can take it.”

"Uh, no," Patrick says, making a disapproving noise and pulling his fingers all the way out. "I can try and just stretch you out, though."

"Your dick isn’t—"

"Don’t even try, man," Patrick cuts him off. "I won’t even believe you."

"Fine," Jonny says, finally letting go of Patrick’s hand. "Just don’t do— _that_.” That, presumably, being taking Jonny apart by fingering his prostate until he shoots. Patrick wants to see it again, but more than that, he wants to get his dick inside of Jonny and find out how much Jonny likes it. He eases up and tries to be more workmanlike in his approach to loosening Jonny up enough to take his dick.

Because, seriously, Patrick’s never going to believe Jonny thinks he has a small dick, since it’s an obvious lie. Jonny might have as much as an inch on Patrick in length, but Jonny’s dick is pretty slender as it curves up towards his belly. Patrick’s is rod-straight and fat—wide enough he’s had to take his time sticking it in girls, before. Even if Jonny is happy with three of Patrick’s decent-sized fingers inside him, Patrick’s not gonna risk Jonny’s ass by going too fast with his dick.

Jonny doesn’t seem entirely pleased with the delay—or maybe too pleased, whatever—as he shifts restlessly against the bed, hands moving to squeeze at the base of his dick and then pulling back to dig into the sheets beside him, but he stays pretty quiet until Patrick’s working in the thumb of his second hand. He’s stretched, red and slick, around three fingers already, and when Patrick tugs down with the tip of his thumb Jonny groans loudly and grabs at his dick.

"Sorry," Patrick says, not feeling particularly so. He pulls his thumb back out and runs his nails along the inside of Jonny’s thigh instead, before pushing up and in with his fingers to make Jonny moan again, just once. Jonny trembles under him and Patrick groans too, chin dropping to his chest to watch as Jonny’s sac pulls up. "What does it feel like?" he asks, curious.

"Uhh," Jonny breathes out. "You, you felt it."

"I felt something," Patrick says, rubbing soothing circles on Jonny’s thigh. "It was good and all, but dude. Nothing like this."

"It’s," Jonny starts, licking his lips and tilting his head back into the curve of his arm. "It’s like. Like—fuck," he swears as Patrick twists his hand.

"Go on," Patrick encourages, just to be a dick. Jonny’s loosening up under him, at least when he’s not squeezing down tight enough to make Patrick’s fingers cramp up. God, Patrick wants to get his cock in there. He stills his fingers and waits until Jonny relaxes again. "Jonny?"

Jonny swallows and unfolds his arm from under his head, lowering his shoulder and rolling both of them against the bed. “You know how when you’re fucking, and the other person just, I dunno. Does something that makes you crazy for it?” Jonny says in a low rasp “Like, I dunno, licks your ear just right or sucks perfectly on your dick or whatever?”

"Yeah," Patrick says, not adding that pretty much all of those moments have been with Jonny. Sometimes before, when he was drunk enough and it was dark enough and he could pretend—but mostly not.

"It’s like, those moments, but they don’t stop. All strung together."

"Wow," Patrick says, bringing his hand back up to skim his knuckles over the silky-smooth arch of Jonny’s dick. Jonny whines and tosses his head to the side, fucking himself down on Patrick’s fingers. "Sounds awesome."

"It’s, ugh," Jonny pants, batting Patrick’s hand away to squeeze in a tight circle at the base of his dick. "It’s a lot."

"Too much?" Patrick asks, taking his own dick in a slick hand instead and jerking it lazily, sliding his fingers in and out of Jonny’s softening hole.

"Not if you get on with it," Jonny grits out.

Patrick laughs. “Okay, okay.” He pulls his out and wipes his wet fingers off on Jonny’s hip. It’s a testament to how into this Jonny is that he doesn’t complain about it, just spreads his legs wider and pulls up his knees to make room. Patrick presses his palms to the back of Jonny’s thighs, but hesitates. He wants to watch Jonny’s face, but he’s not sure about the angle. And he kind of wants to be able to fuck up against Jonny’s ass properly, like Jonny got to do with him. “Turn over,” he says, sitting back and pushing Jonny to the side. Jonny goes, and Patrick crawls up alongside him.

“Should I—” Jonny starts, getting a knee under him to push up, but Patrick pushes him back down and then tugs on his hip.

“On your side,” Patrick says. He pushes Jonny’s upper leg forward, bending his knee up towards his chest, and slides his hand up over the curve of Jonny’s ass. “If this is okay?”

Jonny shivers when Patrick’s fingers dip between wet cheeks. “Yeah,” he says, pushing the pillow out of the way and folding his arm back under his head, settling in. “If you can make it work.”

“Think so,” Patrick answers, pushing two fingers back in. The go in deep and easy and Patrick licks his lips, suddenly desperately aware of how much he wants that pressure on his dick. Jonny’s back ripples as he arches into it, and he reaches behind him to grab at Patrick’s arm.

“Do it,” he orders roughly, fingers digging in tight to Patrick’s forearm.

Patrick pulls out and Jonny lets go, eyes falling shut as he stretches out against Patrick. Patrick can’t help leaning down to press a decidedly gentle kiss to Jonny’s shoulder as he retrieves the lube, mouthing along Jonny’s warm skin and watching the flutter of Jonny’s eyelashes while he slicks up his dick. “Maybe you are kind of pretty,” he murmurs against the line of Jonny’s shoulder.

Jonny’s likely-bitchy reply is cut off by a sharp inhale when Patrick slides the wet head of his dick down Jonny’s crack. Simply pushing between Jonny’s firm cheeks is a rush, and Patrick curls back to watch as he lines up and pushes in. Jonny’s still to the point of tension as the fat head of Patrick’s dick spreads him open. When Patrick’s pushed the head all the way in, he lets go to smooth his hand along Jonny’s side, running from waist to thigh in a steady stroke.

“Oh god,” Patrick breathes, eyes flicking between where his cock vanishes into Jonny’s ass and Jonny’s face. Jonny’s mouth is slack and open as he breathes unsteadily, eyes closed. “You okay?”

“Keep going,” Jonny says tightly, shivering when Patrick pushes forward just a little, dick slipping in another inch. “C’mon, Kaner,” he grits out, rocking his ass back to force Patrick in deeper. “Just— _fuck_.” His voice cracks as Patrick spreads his ass with his free hand and watches, dazed, as he pushes the rest of his dick inside. It’s so god-damned hot and Patrick’s never felt anything tighter. He wants to roll Jonny over onto his belly and fuck him up, press his hips into the soft cushion of Jonny’s ass and drive into him, but it’s _Jonny_ and he’s as new at _this_ as Patrick is, and Patrick needs to be sure.

“Jonny,” Patrick says, flushing hot at how wrecked his voice is, like he’s been swallowing sand or screaming at a ref. “ _Jonny_ , you need to tell me if, if I can—”

“Wait,” Jonny says tightly, chin tucked down and eyes squeezed shut, like he’s in pain.

“I don’t—if it hurts, I’ll pull out,” Patrick says, fingers working between Jonny’s cheeks to rub at the tense, stretched skin around his dick, ready to slide his dick out carefully.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” Jonny grits out. Patrick freezes, locking his muscles up and just… feeling how Jonny’s shifting on the bed, like he’s working out the kinks in a sore muscle, relaxing incrementally until he’s making tiny, rocking movements with his hips. He’s still tight, but Patrick’s dick is sliding more easily by the time Jonny lifts his head and lets out a long, slow breath.

“Yeah?” Patrick asks hopefully. Jonny’s dick has flagged a little, full but drooping down against his thigh. When Patrick reaches for it, Jonny shakes his head and wraps his hand around Patrick’s, pressing them both to his hip.

“Just fuck me,” he says, the gravelly tone of his voice making Patrick shudder as his hips start thrusting all on their own.

It’s. It’s like. Oh god, Patrick can’t even _think_. Jonny’s ass clings to his dick when he slides back, the slick, silicone lube keeping it smooth and easy as he pushes back in until his hips are pressed tight to Jonny’s thick ass. Every stroke is like dying, an endless fall down into a pit of sheer pleasure, and Patrick’s the one who can’t stop making noise this time. He’s not sure he’s managing anything more coherent than “god damn, Jonny, your ass”.

Jonny lets go of his hand to brace himself against the bed, twisting so his chest is pressed down to the mattress, and Patrick shifts down a bit. He curls his hand around where Jonny’s thigh meets his groin, sliding his lower leg in tight to Jonny’s so he can fuck up a little harder.

Jonny shouts, fucking _shouts,_ and Patrick makes a garbled sound. “Is it, is it okay?” he pants, thrusting up sharply again. Jonny sobs and arches his ass back in a wordless _yes yes, please more_ , so Patrick gives it to him, short and hard and dizzyingly good. He looks up from Jonny’s cock where it’s bobbing, flush and firmly arched towards his belly again, to stare dumbly at Jonny’s face. Jonny’s mouth is working noiselessly, his bicep wet with his own spit where he’s pressed against it, and his eyelashes are fluttering against his flushed-red cheeks.

This Jonny doesn’t have any filthy words for Patrick. This Jonny is _wrecked_. Patrick has to shut his eyes lest he come from the sight of him, flushed and trembling and taking everything Patrick’s got. He’s gonna, he’s _gotta_ —and won’t be able to hold back for long, but there is nothing more in this world that he wants than to feel Jonny come on his dick, split open and shaking against him. He can’t even reach for Jonny’s dick to jerk him off, needing his hand on Jonny’s hip to not fuck up the rhythm of his thrusts.

Patrick fucks in and this time stays arched against Jonny’s ass, circling his hips as Jonny shudders and groans out a protest, his fingers clutching into the sheets desperately. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Patrick says, voice low and rumbling in his chest. “You should touch yourself, baby, get off for me.” When Jonny doesn’t respond, Patrick slides out, as slow as he can stand it, until just the head of his cock is caught on the rim of Jonny’s asshole. Jonny shivers, then stills when Patrick doesn’t move. “Jerk it, c’mon,” Patrick murmurs.

“No, please,” Jonny says, pushing weakly back up on his side, trying to work back against the hand Patrick’s holding him still with. He groans when Patrick doesn’t let him, turning his head back until he’s looking up at Patrick, blown-black eyes damp at the corners. “Please, _Pat_.”

“God,” Patrick exhales, obeying in a slow, deliberate thrust. When his dick is halfway buried Jonny shudders, mouth dropping open. His breath is hot against Patrick’s lips. Patrick pulls back again and slides in, angle just right to make Jonny shake, tongue pushing at his bottom lip. A third time and Patrick’s head feels heavy with the need to drop down and lick into Jonny’s pink, open mouth, but Jonny turns away with a gasp instead.

“I want, I want—”

“Hard?” Patrick asks dumbly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jonny hisses out. “You’re gonna make me _come_ , I can’t— _god_.”

Patrick slides his arm under Jonny’s neck and wraps it tight against his chest, bringing them flush together so he can take Jonny like he wants, hard and unceasing. Jonny finally pushes his hand against his own dick, open palm pressing the head of his cock to his belly as he sobs and shakes, Patrick’s desperate thrusts fucking heavy spurts of come out onto Jonny’s abs. All that’s left is for Patrick to bite down hard on the tense curve of muscle over Jonny’s shoulder and give into the heat, the squeeze of Jonny’s ass around his dick, and come.

Patrick’s shoulder gives out, arm loosening around Jonny’s chest so he can drop in tight behind him. He presses his forehead to the back of Jonny’s neck, slick with sweat, and breathes heavily. Neither of them move, save the occasional twitch and shiver of an aftershock, and Patrick’s pretty fucking happy with his dick softening in Jonny’s ass, curled up around his sweaty, loose, post-orgasmic body.

“Jesus Christ,” Jonny finally mutters, shifting against Patrick.

“No shit,” Patrick huffs, tongue darting out to lick at the knob at the top of Jonny’s spine. Jonny clenches down and Patrick makes a soft _whuh_ of surprise. “I guess I shouldn’t ask if that was good,” he says, laughing into Jonny’s skin.

“Uh, no,” Jonny says. Patrick slides his palm up Jonny’s stomach to rub into the mess of Jonny’s come as it’s dripping down onto the sheets. “That was. Yeah.”

“We’re gonna have to do that again,” Patrick pronounces, pushing back up onto his elbow with a groan.

Jonny twists to look up at him, a half-frown ghosting across his blissed-out face. “Yeah?”

“Well, if we’re single,” Patrick says with a grin. “C’mon, tell me you don’t want to do that like, every four hours. Two, if we stay hydrated.”

Jonny looks away, cheeks pink with embarrassment. He makes a low noise and shifts forward, breath hitching as Patrick’s softening dick slides free, and rolls over until he’s on his back on the other side of the bed, feet flexing as he stretches out his legs.

“You okay?” Patrick says, rolling his stiff shoulder as he sits all the way up. “I didn’t go too hard, did I?”

“No, I’m good,” Jonny says, sounding drained. He did just get the shit fucked out of him—Patrick feels pretty proud about leaving Jonny in this state. There’s come smeared across his abs and across Patrick’s sheets, and probably leaking out of his ass, too. If they were… if they weren’t _them_ , Patrick would ask to see, ask to push his fingers into him, and—god, Patrick flushes and wonders what sounds Jonny would make if Patrick licked up his mess.

“You want me to get you a washcloth?” he says instead, sliding his feet to the floor on his side of the bed.

Jonny blows out a breath and shakes his head. “No, I’m gonna—” He groans and sits up, cracking his neck. “I’ll clean up in the bathroom. Shower. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” Patrick says. “You can crash here, if you want.”

Jonny chews on his lip, glancing over at Patrick. “Yeah?”

“Course. Guest bed’s already made up, so you won’t even have to wait til I strip this mess.”

Jonny nods, hands pressed to his thighs, and then he pushes up. “No, it’s fine. You take that, I should get home.”

“You sure?” Patrick asks, frowning.

“It’s early still,” Jonny says as he opens the door to Patrick’s en suite. “No reason to stay.”

~


	3. three

~

Jonny’s a little standoffish for a couple days after that, but it’s nothing particularly out of character for him. Jonny’s always dealt with new or stressful situations by taking some time to himself. While Patrick hopes Jonny’s not too stressed out by getting spectacularly fucked, he gets that it might feel like a big deal for a while. So he backs off, makes sure Jonny knows he’s happy to see him at the rink, but doesn’t push to get Jonny alone or see if he wants to try it again. He’ll work through it sooner or later, and come to Patrick with whatever he wants, and Patrick will be fine with it, even if it doesn’t involve more seriously mind-blowing sex.

Except, well. He’s not exactly getting anything _else_ , in terms of expanding his sexual experiences. Jonny chills out, maybe when he gets that Patrick isn’t going to push, but he doesn’t bring sex up again. For a couple of weeks of frustrating hockey, for the team in general and Patrick in particular, Patrick’s back to his own hand, except with improved fantasies. There’s just no god damned time to go out and try and meet anyone, and Patrick’s circle of gay friends in Chicago is pretty much limited to Jonny. He bitches at Erica about it on the phone one night, but she just points out that after the compressed season is over, he’ll have several months to figure out how to pick up guys. Patrick can’t really explain how desperate he is to make up for lost time, how the idea of waiting until—hopefully—June to get laid again hits him in the gut. If it weren’t for his friendship with Jonny being too important to screw up, Patrick would be knocking down his door and asking for more.

Still, it’s bothering him enough that when Abby says something about how nice it must be to be out and about, Patrick sighs and can’t find the platitudes to agree wholeheartedly.

“I guess,” he says, scraping mashed potatoes into a neat pile in the middle of his plate.

“It’s not better?” Sharpy asks. He and Abby invited him and Jonny, along with Duncs and Seabs and their wives, over for a mid-season dinner with the old-guard. Jonny vocally disapproves of the cliquishness of it, but sometimes it _is_ nice to be able to sit around and talk about the past several years with everyone who’s been there.

“I’m out, yeah, but I’m not really _about_ ,” Patrick says, making one-handed finger quotes. “There just isn’t time, you know? I guess coming out at the start of the season wasn’t ideal like that.”

“You didn’t want to last summer?” Duncs asks.

Patrick shakes his head. “No, I didn’t want to be the only story. I figured it’d be better if the media had actual hockey to talk about, too. But,” he adds, shrugging, “it’s made it, I dunno. Kind of lonely, I guess.”

He’s on his third—fourth?—glass of wine, because Abby always starts pouring as soon as the guests walk in the door. It’s making him more honest than usual. But then, these people know him better than anyone else already, did even before he came out to them.

“Because you don’t have time to date?” Sharpy prods. “You did before. I mean. Girls?”

“Girls are easier to find,” Patrick points out. “And I guess, well.” He flushes, chewing on his lip. “It sounds bad, but I guess I cared less about, like, the right girl. Since there wasn’t going to be one, you know.”

“Aw, Peeks is a romantic,” Sharpy coos, leaning across Abby to pinch his cheek.

Patrick dodges and slaps at his hand, and Abby pushes Sharpy away.

“If you want to date you should ask around the Hawks staff,” Seabs says. “Somebody’s going to know some eligible bachelor to set you up with.”

Patrick shrugs and reaches for his glass. “Yeah. I guess. It’s just weird, to want to meet somebody for real. Gotta start someday though, right?”

“How is it more lonely?” Jonny cuts in, in his usual non-sequitur self that leaves everyone else blinking in confusion. “Than being in the closet,” he adds into the silence. “Isn’t it less lonely not trying to hide?”

Patrick hesitates, considering. He swirls his wine in his glass, watching it paint the inside purple. “Maybe it isn’t more lonely,” he says, half to himself. “Maybe it’s that I got used to being alone, and now that I don’t have to be, I wish I could, I dunno. Snap my fingers and find the perfect guy.” He laughs, self-deprecating, and looks up to see Jonny staring at him intently. “It’s just an adjustment, I’ll get over it, I’m sure. Slut it up like a real man this summer, you know.”

“As long as you use protection,” Seabs says solemnly.

“Brent, seriously,” Dayna says with an eye-roll. She smiles over at Patrick. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. The season’s always so nuts. Once you’ve got some time to breathe again, everything will fall into place.”

“I hope so,” Patrick says, finishing his glass and glancing at the empty bottles on the table. “Should I hit up the wine cellar for round, uh, uh, something?”

“That would be great, thank you Pat,” Abby answers, letting him escape to the kitchen.

~

“Do you want to come over?” Jonny asks when they’re in his car, idling in Sharpy’s driveway.

Patrick looks up from where he’s trying to get his seatbelt buckled, hands a little clumsy from the booze. “Sorry?”

“To mine, do you want to come over tonight,” Jonny repeats, hands loose at the bottom of the steering wheel. “I can drive you back here for your car tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Patrick says. He’s a little tired from all that wine, but if Jonny’s decided to initiate—whatever, even just hanging out, Patrick’s not going to say no.

“Cool,” Jonny says.

He’s quiet for the rest of the drive home, letting Patrick skip through radio stations until they’re all the way to his condo. When Jonny lets them inside, though, he doesn’t even wait for Patrick to kick off his shoes before pushing him up against the door and cupping Patrick’s hips.

“Woah,” Patrick says, hands automatically coming up between them to rest on Jonny’s chest. Jonny tucks his head down into the curve of Patrick’s neck and noses along it. Patrick shivers. “You want?”

Jonny pulls back enough to meet Patrick’s eyes. “If you—I mean, we can just hang out. But I thought you might want to—”

“Hey,” Patrick interrupts, a thought occurring to him. “Is this because of what I said at dinner? About being lonely?” Jonny flushes, and Patrick frowns. “Dude, you don’t have to give me like, a pity fuck.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Jonny protests, but whatever, it totally _is_. Patrick actually would be okay with that, except he doesn’t like the idea that Jonny might be doing this for any reason other than it being good for him, too.

“Just having you as my friend makes it less lonely, you know,” Patrick says seriously, pushing his hands to Jonny’s shoulders and pressing down to emphasize his words. “You don’t have to feel obligated to like, screw around with me too.”

“If you don’t _want_ to—”

“Hey, let’s be clear here,” Patrick says with a grin. “I’m not saying _no_ to a pity fuck on principle or anything. Just making sure you’re actually enjoying this.”

“Has it seemed like I’m not?” Jonny says, and the affronted arch of his eyebrow comes with a glint of humour in his eyes. Patrick laughs and sprawls back against the door, using his grip on Jonny’s shoulders to tug him in between the V of his legs. He wraps his hands around Jonny’s ass, tilting his head back.

“You make a strong argument,” Patrick says, digging his fingers in and feeling the strength of Jonny’s glutes as he thrusts against Patrick’s abs. Jonny huffs out a breath and ducks down to slide his hands under Patrick’s ass and haul him up. “Wow, okay,” Patrick says, letting go of Jonny’s ass and slinging his arms over Jonny’s shoulders instead. He wraps his legs around Jonny’s hips, pressed tight between Jonny’s strong frame and the door.

“Bedroom?” Jonny says into the curve of Patrick’s neck, teeth grazing against his skin.

Patrick laughs, head rushing from the wine and the heavy beat of arousal running through him. “You’re not going to carry me, dude.”

"You’re light enough," Jonny says.

"Dick," Patrick says, and then, "unf," as Jonny grinds up against his ass, pushing him higher on the door. " _Tiny_ dick,” Patrick chirps instead, and then laughs when Jonny pulls back from where he’s sucking a hickey onto Patrick’s collarbone to give him an offended look.

It’s a blatant enough challenge that Patrick’s prepared for it when Jonny wraps his arms tight around him and straightens up, lifting him off the door. Jonny carries him all the way down the hall and into his bedroom while Patrick giggles and licks at his ear unhelpfully. He gets tossed on the bed unceremoniously, groaning a little at the jarring movement.

"Ugh, fucker," Patrick says, collapsing in a sprawl of limbs. Jonny crawls over him and starts in on his shirt, fingers quick and efficient as he pops the buttons in sequence. He pulls Patrick upright and strips him of the dress shirt and the undershirt beneath it before shifting to lick from Patrick’s neck down to his nipples. "Oh," Patrick breathes, arching up into Jonny’s hot mouth. "Oh, oh, that’s—"

"Good?" Jonny mumbles. His palm is pressing against Patrick’s dick, the heel of his hand moving in slow, steady circles while he sucks Patrick’s nipple into a tender peak.

"Yes," Patrick breathes out, cupping the back of Jonny’s head. Jonny drops to his hip by Patrick’s side and lifts his head to work open Patrick’s fly and tug out his dick. Patrick moans at the callused slide of Jonny’s fingers on his skin that lasts until Jonny lets go and leans all the way over his body to grab the lube off the bedside table. When he settles back in, Jonny ducks down again to draw his tongue over Patrick’s nipple, flat and slick. Patrick shudders as the sensation shivers down his spine to his cock.

"Ugh," Patrick groans, fingers clenching in Jonny’s hair when he closes his teeth on Patrick’s nipple and tugs. "Shit."

Jonny presses his forehead to Patrick’s chest, tongue drawing circles around his nipple. “Always wanted to do that,” he says, voice so low and soft Patrick can hardly make out the words.

"Carry somebody to bed?" Patrick asks. There’s a snap of Jonny opening up the lube, and then the cool drip of it along Patrick’s dick, lying on his belly. Patrick’s hips jerk up when Jonny’s fist wraps tight around it. "Jonny?"

Jonny’s mouth closes again and Patrick whines as he sucks hard, Jonny’s hand dragging slickly up Patrick’s cock until the head of it is cupped firmly in his palm. “Suck on your nipples,” Jonny says roughly when he pulls off. It takes Patrick a moment to remember the question.

"Really?"

"Yeah, they’re—" Jonny leans over and licks softly at the other nipple. Patrick twists on the bed, but Jonny just throws a leg over his thighs to pin Patrick down. "So big, Pat, and always hard under your shirts." His hand starts moving in a smooth stroke, up and down Patrick’s dick, in time with the little, teasing licks he’s laying all around Patrick’s nipple, everywhere but the tight tip. Patrick gets what grip he can on Jonny’s hair and tugs.

"C’mon, suck it," he whines, arching when Jonny does. "Oh, oh, _oh_.”

Jonny doesn’t stop playing with them, tongue and lips working Patrick into a squirming, shivery mess while he jerks Patrick’s cock. Patrick’s thighs strain against the weight of Jonny’s leg as he tries to push his dick into Jonny’s tight fist. He’s just boozed up enough that he can’t hold back on the rush of his orgasm, coming fast and hard as he presses Jonny’s face to his chest.

After he lets up, Jonny turns his head to press his cheek to Patrick’s chest, wet fingers trailing down over Patrick’s dick. Patrick shivers, come cooling on his stomach as Jonny rocks steadily against his hip.

"You should fuck me," Patrick says.

Jonny leans up on an elbow, hand stilling on Patrick’s slick junk. “Now?”

"Yeah."

"You sure?" Jonny asks, but he’s sliding his leg off Patrick’s so he can work Patrick’s pants down his hips and tuck his lubed up fingers under Patrick’s balls. Patrick spreads his legs as much as he can, giving Jonny some room to work with. "You just came."

"I noticed," Patrick says with a snort. "I want you to. If it’s bad, I’ll say so. I promise."

"Alright," Jonny says, looking dubious, but he gets up and strips anyway, letting Patrick struggle out of his pants and boxers on the bed. Once they’re both naked, Jonny tosses Patrick some tissues, letting him wipe his stomach down, and kneels between his spread thighs.

"It’s cool," Patrick says, drawing up a knee as Jonny presses a finger inside. "It’s not as intense for me, I don’t think. And anyway," he adds, grinning. "I’m tired. This way I can just lie here while you do the work."

"Lazy," Jonny says, rolling his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders drops away, and he ducks his head to focus on opening Patrick up.

Patrick’s half-drifting, feeling loose and easy while Jonny stretches him out. When Jonny curves in deep and strokes against his prostate, it makes him shiver, but it’s not overwhelming enough to tell him to stop. It doesn’t take long for Jonny to be satisfied with his prep, and Patrick’s so relaxed that the push of Jonny’s dick inside just makes him sigh, content.

"S’good," he slurs, spreading his hands against the sheets. Jonny pushes his knees up and in until Patrick’s calves are pressed to Jonny’s shoulders, and then leans down.

"This okay?" Jonny asks in a whisper.

Patrick reaches up between them, curling his fingers around Jonny’s neck and tugging him down further, until Patrick’s all but folded in half. “More than,” he says. Jonny rocks against him and Patrick’s eyes flutter. It’s so good, full and folded down under Jonny’s warm, heavy weight. When Jonny gets a steady rhythm going, Patrick’s mouth falls open to pant in time with it.

"Shit," Jonny says tightly, pressing his forehead to Patrick’s. "You feel so… Pat, I can’t—"

"Shh," Patrick says, rubbing soothingly at Jonny’s neck. He tilts his chin up, mouth just barely brushing against Jonny’s, and Jonny shudders. There’s nothing to do but press his tongue to Jonny’s in an open, panting kiss. Patrick wets Jonny’s lips with his tongue and then groans as they slide their mouths together, trading hot, short breaths of air. Jonny licks out, catching the tip of Pat’s tongue with his own, and Patrick goes hot and tense, feeling Jonny respond to the sudden tightening in the stutter of his hips. Patrick tilts his head to fit their mouths together in a wide, open kiss, letting Jonny push inside his mouth with his tongue in slow, curling licks that match the steady thrusting of his hips.

It lasts—god, Patrick isn’t even sure how long it lasts, lost in being filled up and held down. He finds Jonny’s waist with his hands, curling his fingers into the sweaty, flexing planes of muscle and urging him in again and again, each solid stroke pushing air out of Patrick’s lungs in quiet gasps that Jonny swallows down. When Jonny comes, he slides away from the kiss to breathe hard against Patrick’s neck.

Jonny doesn’t move for a while, lips sticky-wet and breath tickling at Patrick’s skin. Patrick hums softly, letting his legs slide off Jonny’s shoulders until his knees are crooked over Jonny’s arms instead. Jonny sighs, a deep, shuddering exhale, and then pushes up, knees bracketing Patrick’s hips as he slips out. Patrick shivers, and Jonny leans off the bed to pull the comforter up off the floor and drag it over both of them, crawling up the bed to lie on his back a foot away from Patrick.

"I’m gonna fuck up your sheets," Patrick says sleepily, flexing to work out the kink in his hip.

"I’ll wash ‘em in the morning," Jonny dismisses, bringing up a hand to rub at his face.

"Kay," Patrick says. He guesses that means Jonny’s not gonna kick him out, which is excellent, because he’s not sure he could get his legs to cooperate right now.

"It wasn’t a pity fuck," Jonny says abruptly.

Patrick turns his head and looks over at Jonny, who’s staring resolutely up at the ceiling. “I know,” Patrick says, sliding his hand under the covers to poke Jonny in the hip. “I wouldn’t—didn’t think it was, really. Not with you.”

“No?” Jonny says, looking over at Patrick, teeth caught on the corner of his mouth.

“Naw,” Patrick says, smiling. "You’re, dude. You’re you, you know? And I’m me."

“What?” Jonny says, looking confused.

Patrick huffs out a breath. He looks up at the ceiling as he chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out how to say it. His mind’s too fuzzy for serious thoughts. “I mean, I guess, you get me?” he says. “Even before we were out to each other, you’ve always been, I dunno. The person who gets where I’m coming from more than anybody else. With hockey, and the Hawks, and just—being who we are, you know?" Jonny’s quiet, and Patrick pushes against Jonny’s hip with his knuckles. "And now with this, you getting what this is like, for me.”

“You mean, sex?” Jonny asks.

“That, but like. Being gay. Or bi—not straight, whatever. And the whole coming out thing.”

“I haven’t, though,” Jonny points out.

“You have to me,” Patrick says, twisting onto his side to watch Jonny. He’s looking away again, hand of the arm he’s got tucked under his head flexing steadily open and closed. “You get—I dunno. It’s just buddyfucking, but it isn’t, right? Not for me, and you get that.”

Jonny licks his lips, breathes out. “Yeah, I do.”

“I’m not saying…” Patrick sighs, pushing his face into the pillow. He can feel that his cheeks have gone red against the cool fabric. “You know me too well for me to think you’d ever pity me,” he finishes finally, a little muffled. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Jonny’s hand finds his under the cover, and he curls them together where Patrick is pressing against Jonny. “That’s good,” Jonny says, his own voice rough with tiredness.

Patrick rubs his thumb against the smooth skin of Jonny’s hip, and Jonny’s grip tightens, squeezing Patrick’s hand once before he lets go and rolls away. Patrick wonders, the thought coming to him unbidden as he falls asleep, what Jonny would do if he closed the space between them for something other than sex.

~

Patrick wakes easily in the morning, light leaking in between Jonny’s curtains. Jonny is a curled-up lump next to him, not budging as Patrick gets out of bed and pads quietly across the carpet to the bathroom. Patrick feels—good, really. Head clear and well-slept, just a little sweaty and sticky with the residue of last night’s sex, nothing that a hot shower won’t fix.

Jonny comes in just as he’s rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. Patrick can tell through the foggy glass of the shower door that he’s not entirely awake as he tugs his dick out of his boxers and pisses.

"Morning Tazer," Patrick says, cracking the door open to grab a towel off the rack. "Want me to leave the shower on?"

"No," Jonny says, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he yawns widely. "I took one last night."

"Yeah?" Patrick asks. He shuts off the water and starts scrubbing himself dry in the warmth of the stall.

"Couldn’t sleep," Jonny answers.

The sink goes on, and when Patrick steps out, towel slung around his hips, Jonny’s cupping his hands under the stream of water to splash his face. “I didn’t even notice you get up,” Patrick says.

"You were pretty passed out," Jonny says with a snort. He dries his face off and grabs his toothbrush. "Not surprised, you were kind of hammered."

"Hey now," Patrick protests, snatching Jonny’s toothbrush out of his hand. "I was not."

"No?" Jonny asks archly, not even trying to steal it back. His hand-eye coordination is shit in the mornings for a good half-hour, something Patrick tries to take advantage of as often as possible. Patrick grins, twirling the toothbrush between his fingers.

"Not drunk enough to forget, oh, I don’t know, how _somebody_ confessed to having a _thing_ for my nipples.”

Jonny rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. Patrick’s eyes dip to his bunched-up pecs—Jonny’s nipples are pretty, but compared to Patrick’s, they’re small and flat, something to lick at rather than suck on. “It’s not a _thing_ , Jesus.”

"Only that you’d apparently spent some time thinking about sucking on them," Patrick points out, smile deepening as Jonny flushes pink.

"Shut up," Jonny mutters.

"Aw, don’t be embarrassed. It’s not like I’ve never thought anything about you," Patrick says, holding out the toothbrush in supplication.

"I thought you said you never looked," Jonny says, turning back to his sink. Patrick leans his hip against the counter and watches how the flush spreads across the back of Jonny’s neck. Patrick wants to touch it to see how hot the skin feels.

"I didn’t, like, _ogle_ ,” Patrick says. “And I tried not to fantasize or whatever. But it’s not like I didn’t wonder, sometimes.”

"Wonder what?" Jonny asks around a mouthful of toothpaste suds. It’s kind of gross, how he can’t keep his mouth shut while he brushes, but Patrick’s used to it by now.

"Stuff," Patrick says, shrugging. "You know."

"I don’t," Jonny says after he spits, ducking down to rinse out his mouth straight from the tap. "Tell me."

"Or what?" Patrick says, flicking Jonny on the arm, hard enough to leave a red mark that doesn’t fade right away. And yeah, Jonny’s predictable in that he goes for the sensitive skin on the side of Patrick’s ribs, digging his nails in in the way he knows is equally painful and ticklish. Patrick gets some of his own back by way of digging his teeth sharply into Jonny’s bicep, but in the scuffle he gets backed up to the toilet and ends up almost falling over it into the shower stall. Jonny tugs him back hard, spinning Patrick up against his chest and getting him trapped up against the counter.

"Oof, okay, okay, uncle," Patrick pants as Jonny’s teeth settle against the arch of his shoulder and press down threateningly.

"What did you wonder about?" Jonny says, words a little muffled, since he’s still got his mouth pressed to Patrick’s skin.

Patrick laughs and pushes back off the counter, getting some space to move. Jonny slides his hand down Patrick’s belly to push the towel down and scratch at his pubes. Patrick makes a small noise and arches his neck as Jonny works up it, until his breath is hot on Patrick’s ear.

"What—" Jonny says, teeth sliding along Patrick’s earlobe, "—did you—" Patrick shudders at a sharp nip, hips jerking forward, "—think about?" Jonny finishes, tongue darting into his ear as he tugs the towel open to wrap his hand around Patrick’s hard cock.

"Unf," Patrick breathes out. "Uh." He can’t really think like this, not as Jonny’s jerking him unevenly and licking into his ear. "Uh, shit, your—your tongue," he finishes, half because he can’t think of much other than the teasing slide of it around the shell of his ear. It’s a great tongue, Patrick can admit, long and thick and he knows now, from last night, how good Jonny is at licking into somebody’s mouth with it.

"Doing what?" Jonny demands, his other hand tight on Patrick’s hip, pulling his ass back into Jonny’s dick. The towel hangs loose from where it’s trapped between them, but Jonny’s erection is an unmistakable press against Patrick’s ass.

"Shit, Tazer, I don’t, ugh," Patrick groans, hands splayed across the counter as Jonny works him up. "On my dick, I guess."

"Just on your dick?" Jonny murmurs. The hand on Patrick’s hip loosens. Patrick shivers as Jonny’s hand slides across the small of his back and up, until it’s resting just between Patrick’s shoulder blades. When Jonny presses, Patrick tenses and pushes back, palms sliding a little on the countertop. "Ever been rimmed?"

"Fuck," Patrick says, dick leaping in Jonny’s still hand. "No."

"Do you want to be?"

"Jonny," Patrick says. This time he lets Jonny push him over and tug his hips back until Patrick’s hands are pressed against the tiled backsplash between the pair of sinks. He can feel the pull in his hamstrings, a slow, easy stretch that he sinks into. His forehead drops to the counter as Jonny passes an open hand down his spine and then pulls away. "Jonny—"

"Wait," Jonny says. Patrick tucks his head down to watch as Jonny tugs a couple towels off the shelf and drops them to the floor. He shuts his eyes instead of watching Jonny follow them to his knees, skin hot.

"You don’t have to…" Patrick says, trailing off with a whimper as Jonny’s hands come up to his thighs, stroking up the insides. Patrick’s feet spread unconsciously, toes curling into the bath mat.

"I like it," Jonny says, reaching between Patrick’s legs to tug at his dick, just once, before he parts Patrick’s cheeks and thumbs at the damp, shower-clean skin. "It’s something I…"

"Thought about?" Patrick asks, voice a little strangled as Jonny presses biting kisses along one of his cheeks.

"Missed," Jonny says quietly, before Patrick feels the heavy, wet slide of Jonny’s tongue across his hole.

"Fuuuck," Patrick groans, hips stuttering.

"Hold still," Jonny says, muffled.

Patrick braces himself, muscles tightening. Jonny pulls him wider and starts licking in small, short strokes down his crack and around his hole, teasing touches that leave him holding his breath. Just the thought of what Jonny’s doing is enough to make Patrick flush and tremble, embarrassment warring with the need to shove back and get Jonny’s tongue to stop teasing at him.

"Jonny," he whines, sliding his feet apart in a blatant, shameful plea. He jolts when Jonny’s hand wraps around his cock, pulling it down between Patrick’s legs to jerk it lightly as his tongue dips to lap at Patrick’s balls. "Shit, shit, c’mon, do it."

Instead, Jonny lets up with his mouth entirely, keeping just the lightest of strokes going on Patrick’s dick. “Do what?” Jonny rasps, cheek sliding roughly against the tender skin of Patrick’s ass. He teases the fingers of one hand between Patrick’s cheeks, pushing them apart. Jonny’s breath feels cool against Patrick’s spit-slicked, exposed hole.

"Lick it, you fucker," Patrick pants, bracing himself on one arm so he can reach down and knock Jonny’s hand off his dick. He can jerk himself just fine, thanks. He wants Jonny to spread him open and get his tongue on him and stop holding back.

His back arches when Jonny’s tongue flicks out against the rim of his hole. Jonny slides his thumbs up along Patrick’s crack, spreading him wider, and Patrick _sobs_ when Jonny ducks back in and strokes his tongue, soft and wet, across Patrick’s hole. Patrick’s abs go tight, his fist tightening on his dick as Jonny starts up a slow, steady rhythm—nothing hard or pressing, just constant, buzzing sensation.

It’s filthy and so god damned intimate. Patrick would be burning up with embarrassment if he wasn’t already lit up from the sensation alone. Of all the things he did fantasize about, this was never one of them. Picturing Jonny on his knees, sucking on his cock with fierce determination, sure—Patrick can admit he imagined _that_ more than once. Never this, never Jonny’s tongue pressing wet and heavy between his cheeks.

When Jonny stops licking and pushes the firm tip of his tongue to the tight circle, Patrick shudders. "Fuck, Patrick," Jonny says, muffled. "You’re twitching, like—" another firm swipe that presses in, and Patrick clenches down, feels his hole spasm around the tip of Jonny’s tongue. He whimpers when Jonny sits back, fingertips of one hand rubbing against the tender skin around his hole, his other hand wrapping tight around Patrick’s where it’s stilled on his dick. "Jerk off, get yourself—wanna feel you come like this, hot under my mouth."

Patrick groans, head thunking down to the cool countertop. His hand starts working his dick under Jonny’s grasp, and when Jonny seems satisfied he won’t quit, he settles back into the task of taking Patrick apart with his mouth.

~

“Y’know,” Patrick mumbles, two spectacular orgasms and an amount of time later he couldn’t have guessed at if you’d promised him a cup in exchange. “You can do that with girls.” His head is pillowed on Jonny’s thigh, Jonny’s dick softening beside him. Patrick trails his fingers over it absently.

“Huh?” Jonny says, hand stilling in Patrick’s hair. “Get my dick sucked?”

“No—well, yeah, but I mean, the, the other thing.” Patrick says, cheeks hot. He slides his hand off Jonny’s dick to rest on Jonny’s stomach instead, tracing the hard lines of muscle that vee down to his groin.

Jonny exhales, a quiet laugh that makes his abs leap. “Rimming, you mean.”

“Yeah. You said you missed it, but…” Patrick shrugs, and then rolls his shoulder, pressed to the bed between Jonny’s legs, to work out to crick in his neck. Jonny slides his hand out of his hair and down to the juncture of Patrick’s neck and shoulder, digging his fingers in. Patrick sighs, eyes falling shut.

“It’s not really something you do with a girl on a one-night stand,” Jonny says after a minute of kneading out the tension. “And none of my girlfriends have been into anal or any of it, so.”

“Shame,” Patrick says. He hums as Jonny starts working up his neck.

“Tell me about it,” Jonny says with an exaggerated sigh. Patrick laughs, turning his face to bite softly into the thin skin of Jonny’s inner thigh. Jonny’s hand tightens around the back of his neck, but Patrick just licks over the same spot and tilts his head back to look up towards Jonny. He’s sprawled up against a pile of pillows—all the better to watch, he’d said.

“Would you date a guy? If you met somebody, I guess?”

Jonny looks up at the ceiling, thumb rubbing absently behind Patrick’s ear. “Probably not,” he says, and Patrick’s stomach rolls. “It’s just, you know. Easier with a girl.”

“Right,” Patrick says tightly. He pulls out from under Jonny’s hand and sits up, pushing upright off of Jonny’s leg.

“Hey,” Jonny says, curling up and wrapping a hand around Patrick’s bicep. He’s got that look on his face that makes him seem so sweet: eyes wide, brows raised, lips parted as he leans towards Patrick. “I know you don’t have that choice, okay?”

“Sure,” Patrick says, shaking off Jonny’s grip to slide off the end of the bed. He finds his pants, pooled on the floor, and picks them up before heading to Jonny’s dresser for underwear.

“Patrick—”

“No, it’s cool,” Patrick interrupts, back turned to Jonny as he steps into a pair of boxer-briefs, and then his pants. “I get it.” He feels a warm hand on his shoulder, unexpected, and lets himself be turned around in his surprise. He hadn’t heard Jonny get up.

“You don’t get it,” Jonny says, and Patrick bristles. “No, listen—I’d come out for you, okay?” Jonny’s deadly serious, hand heavy on Patrick’s shoulder as he tilts his head down to meet Patrick’s eyes. “To support you. I said I would, and I meant it.”

“But?” Patrick challenges. He digs his teeth in hard to the skin inside his mouth.

“But it’s never been like that, for me, with guys. It was just… it’s always only been sex. I wouldn’t come out just for that, it wouldn’t be worth it. Because I like fucking girls, and dating them, and—I’m not stuck, not like you were, and I get that. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have come out. I wouldn’t think that, okay?”

“Yeah, I—” Patrick tries, floundering. He steps back, trying to get some room between them, trying to get away from Jonny’s intense, determined gaze. He tugs at his own hair, smoothing it down his neck as he tries to figure out what to say. How can he explain he hadn’t thought of it that way, without having to come up with another reason why Jonny’s answer made him feel sick and unhappy? He doesn’t have one. “Okay,” he says finally, looking down to do up his fly. “Thanks, I guess.”

Jonny blows out a frustrated breath, but he doesn’t say anything more as Patrick finishes getting dressed, just finds some clothes of his own and puts them on a little more violently than necessary. Patrick’s not sure what he’s so pissed about; Patrick’s not sure what _Patrick_ is so pissed about, he just knows that the tension in the room is so thick a skate blade couldn’t slice through it. Patrick escapes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, lingering to drink some water. His face is pale even in the warm, flattering light of Jonny’s en suite.

“You want something to eat?” Jonny asks when Patrick comes back out. He’s got his head tucked down, fiddling with his phone by the bedroom door.

“No, I’m good,” Patrick says. He’d been hungry before, but now he’s just nauseated. “I’ll get something at home.”

“We can get your car, then.”

“Nah, I’ll catch a cab,” Patrick says, shifting uneasily on his feet. “You don’t need to bother with it.”

Jonny’s mouth opens as he finally looks up, and then closes with an audible click. “Sure,” he says, before turning on his heels and leaving Patrick alone in the bedroom. Patrick looks at the bed, with the comforter piled in a heap on the floor, sheets stained and twisted across it, pillows rucked askew, and breathes out in a slow, uneven exhale.

He doesn’t look for Jonny when he leaves and calls for a cab in the lobby.

~

They lose the next four in a row, which feels like a metaphor Patrick really could live without. The schedule is so crammed with games in the run-up to the Olympics, the distance between him and Jonny could just be business getting in the way—but it’s not. Patrick’s not kidding himself. When fucking a friend gets weird, you stop. He’s not stupid enough to keep pushing, no matter how much he wants to, and Jonny seems to feel the same. He misses everything about it fiercely, but he’s too tired with traveling and losing to dwell on it.

They finally eke out a win against Vancouver, which normally would be a satisfying team to take out. On the heels of so much losing, however, it feels more like relief than victory. By the time the team rolls into Vegas for their so-called ‘team-bonding’ trip, Patrick gets the impression everyone’s hoping to avoid thinking about hockey. And it seems his sex life—or apparent lack of it—is just the distraction they’re looking for.

"C’mon, Kaner, it’ll be fun," Shawzy whines on the bus to the hotel, leaning over the back of the seat. "You can pick up, we can get drunk without having to fend off puck bunnies—"

"—this is Vegas, Shawzy," Duncs says, sitting next to Patrick. "Chicks don’t care who you are here."

"Whatever," Shawzy dismisses. "But like, solidarity. Or we can find a mixed bar."

"How the hell do you know what a mixed bar is?" Patrick asks, amused.

"There’s one Chaunette likes in Toronto," Shawzy says. "She looked me up a couple here, and some actual gay bars. We can get a table, bottle service, and you can go off and dance with the hottest dudes you can find and bring one back to the hotel or whatever. It’ll be the shit."

Patrick raises his eyebrows, amused. Shawzy’s been, well. Since his fuck-up in December, he’s made a point of being supportive, and while Patrick appreciates the gesture, he’d also really like to not be talking about getting laid with the entire team listening in. “That’s, uh, a nice thought, Shawzy, but I’m fine with a normal club.”

Shawzy straight-up _scowls_. “Excuse you, gay clubs are normal clubs too,” and disappears back into his seat.

Patrick shares a wide-eyed, baffled look with Duncs, and then buries his laughter behind the Sports Illustrated he’d picked up at the airport, happy that’s the end of it.

~

Except it’s not the end of it, because somehow _Jonny_ decides that Shawzy’s idea is a good one. He organizes the team’s night out to this multi-level gay club, despite _everything_. Which, okay, is maybe nothing, Patrick gets it. His thing with Jonny has always been about getting him laid, and maybe Jonny sees setting this up as another way to be supportive. It’s still awkward to have the team grinning at him expectantly as they shove him away from the table to go “find himself some ass”, thanks Steeger.

"I’m not picking up," Patrick says, trying to push Seabs out of the chair he’d stolen and sit back down. "We’re on a fucking road trip."

"Never stopped you with chicks," Steeger points out, one arm slung around his shoulders as he tries to drag him towards the stairs down to the dance floor. "I mean, I’d recommend not, you know, taking it, but no reason not to get some."

"Oh god," Patrick says, burying his face in his hands. "You all suck." Which is a terrible choice of words, but the chorus of shitty blow-job jokes that follow at least makes it easy to throw up his hands and say, "Fine, just so I don’t have to look at your disgusting faces anymore."

He takes a detour to the long, lower bar and does a couple of shots, enough with the beer they’d thrown back at the table to get him buzzing.

"Liquid courage?"

Patrick looks left at the guy leaning, faux-casual, on the bar next to him. “Dancing sober is criminal,” Patrick says over the din of the club, licking at the corner of his mouth to chase the last of the alcohol. The guy’s eyes drop and his own lips curve up into a grin. He’s hot, Patrick figures, in a skinny, hipster sort of way, so he doesn’t have to talk himself into following him to the dance floor.

~

"Heeeeeey," Patrick hollers, sweaty and drunk and precariously balancing a tray of shots on one hand. "How’re my boys?" He puts the tray down at one end of the row and starts dishing them out to the guys nearby. Jonny’s on the banquette side at the near end, cheeks flushed drunk-red, but he’s curled in tensely, not sprawled out and handsy like he usually is when he’s smashed. It’s weird, Patrick thinks, because, out of the entire team, Jonny’s got the least reason to be freaked out in a gay bar.

"Not as good as you," Bollig says with a grin, giving Patrick a filthy up-down look that makes Patrick blush. He’s in jeans that actually fit, and grinding up on the dance floor has left him, well—with what he’s packing, there’s not a whole lot left to the imagination. Patrick sits down hard on the bench and shoves Jonny over until he can slide behind the table.

"You’re gross," he says to Bollig, picking up a shot and tossing it back. "Drink more, I need you all to forget this ever happened."

“Cheers,” Bollig drawls, taking one and pushing the tray down the long table.

Patrick sighs, content, and leans back, turning his head on the upholstery to look over at Jonny. “Taaaazer,” he says in a low voice. Jonny looks back at him, elbows on the table, and Patrick reaches out to knuckle into his spine. “You should come dance,” Patrick says, pressing harder until Jonny straightens up and knocks his arm away.

“Uh, no,” Jonny says with a snort, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Please?” Patrick says, leaning in and blinking at him plaintively. He misjudges and has to press a hand to Jonny’s shoulder to keep from tipping into his face. This close, he can see Jonny’s pupils dilate, feel the release of breath across his face as he slides his thumb along the skin above Jonny’s collar. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Jonny presses his lips tight together. “You’re drunk,” he says after a moment, full of judgment.

Patrick snorts. “So are you.”

“Be a man, Tazer,” Bollig says, leaning over the table and grinning at them. “Somebody should keep an eye on this idiot down there, anyway. Captain’s duty.”

“Yeah Jonny,” Patrick says, tonguing at his lower lip and feeling the clench of Jonny’s muscles under his palm. “Don’t want some jerk getting up in my face, eh?” Like he couldn’t deck a guy if necessary, just as well as Jonny can, anyway. But he’s hammered and horny and he wants, he wants—

Jonny sighs, long-suffering, but when he shoves Patrick away it’s to stand up, wavering only a little as he finds his feet. “Fine,” he says, pushing Patrick up and out of the booth to the cat-calls of the team. “Just to make sure you don’t puke on anybody.”

“I am definitely not that drunk,” Patrick says with a laugh, but he lets Jonny lead him back towards the stairs, his fingers hot on the small of Patrick’s back.

He is, though, and so is Jonny, because no way would either of them be stupid enough to do what happens next if they were at all sober. It’s not like the guys are in this part of the club, it’s crowded, and nobody cares who he and Jonny are, but there’s nothing, fucking _nothing_ heterosexual about the way he and Jonny end up grinding on the dance floor.

“Shit,” Patrick says breathily as Jonny grips his waist and pulls him up on his thigh, rutting against Patrick’s hip. Jonny’s breath is hot on Patrick’s ear, and Jonny’s tongue keeps darting out to swipe at it. Patrick groans and drops his forehead to Jonny’s shoulder, wiping away sweat. “Fuck, I missed this,” Patrick gasps, unheard against the loud beat of the music.

When Patrick slides his hands under the edge of Jonny’s shirt and digs his nails in, Jonny swears into his ear, loud enough to catch, and leans down to slide his tongue wetly along Patrick’s neck. Patrick groans and pushes his hips up, riding the hard line of Jonny’s thigh while Jonny latches on and sucks.

It’s so much better than before, nothing like dancing with a stranger. Those are _Jonny’s_ hands touching him and _Jonny’s_ teeth pressing at his skin and _Jonny’s_ back flexing under his hands to work them together in a rhythm that’s driving Patrick mad, his cock throbbing between them on every thrust. When Jonny brings his hands around to cup Patrick’s ass and drag him up, up, up, Patrick throws his head back and gasps, eyes squeezed shut as he tries not to come.

“Fuck, Jonny,” he groans, words lost into the thrum of the dance floor. Jonny’s fingers tighten as Patrick tries to pull back, and then his tongue finds Patrick’s throat, hair tickling Patrick’s chin as he licks along it. Patrick pulls a hand back between them so he can grip Jonny’s chin and angle him up, eyes still shut as their lips meet. Patrick’s fingers trail down to rest on Jonny’s throat while they kiss. He feels Jonny’s moans, vibrating under the tips of his fingers as he slides his tongue along Jonny’s.

They aren’t dancing anymore, just standing tight together, hips working against each other in erratic, shivery-good thrusts as they kiss. Patrick feels desperate and greedy as he digs his nails hard into the firm muscle along Jonny’s spine, feeling Jonny’s whine against his mouth. Jonny’s hands wander across his ass, stroking and squeezing until he’s trying to work his fingers under Pat’s pants, pushing them tight under the waistband.

Somebody knocks into them and presses a hand to Patrick’s shoulder in an apology, and Patrick wrenches his mouth off Jonny’s, startled. Jonny’s eyes flutter open, narrowing with confusion as Patrick pulls away, Jonny’s hands fall off him as Patrick pushes against his chest.

“We can’t,” Patrick gasps, but Jonny just frowns at him and lifts his hand to thumb at Patrick’s mouth. Patrick shivers, eyes blinking shut, but—no, Jonny just can’t hear him. He could say anything at all, and Jonny would keep touching him.

Instead, he wraps his hand around Jonny’s wrist and uses it to drag Jonny through the throng of bodies on the dance floor, back through the club until they hit the dim, quieter hall back to the washrooms. His heart’s thumping hard in his chest, fear of being caught mingling with the heat of his arousal—and something else, something deeper than the basic need to come. He tightens his grip on Jonny’s wrist.

They round a corner and Jonny stops letting Patrick lead him, pulling against Patrick’s grip until he stops and turns around. Jonny pushes him up against the wall and ducks down to kiss him again.

“Wait,” Patrick says, muffled against Jonny’s lips and so, so unwilling to push back, but he’s sure he’s the more sober one here and _somebody’s_ got to say it. “No, fuck,” he gasps, getting an arm braced across Jonny’s chest to shove him away.

“What the fuck,” Jonny says, tripping back to fall against the far wall.

“Jonny—” Patrick starts. Somebody passes between them, heading to the washrooms at the end of the hall. “We can’t do this here. The team—”

“Then let’s go,” Jonny says, straightening and stepping back up to Patrick, fingers sliding along Patrick’s hip.

Patrick gapes.

“Unless you don’t want to,” Jonny says, thumbing the hot skin above the line of Patrick’s jeans. Patrick blinks, eyelids suddenly heavy as Jonny crowds in again and pushes his hand against the line of Patrick’s cock, thick against his hip. “But I think you do.”

“Ffffuu—” Patrick breathes out, head thunking back on the wall as Jonny works him through his jeans. “I thought, I thought….” Jonny’s hand stills. Patrick gulps in a couple of deep breaths, trying to sort through the tangled mess of his thoughts. “I thought this was done,” he manages, looking up at Jonny’s sweaty face and slick mouth.

Something flickers across Jonny’s face. For a moment Patrick thinks he’s going to let go and walk away, but Jonny just shrugs, the hand on Patrick’s dick squeezing tight and then releasing. “It’s just fucking,” Jonny says. “There’s nothing _to_ be done.”

He turns away, starting back down the hall, before pausing and looking back over his shoulder. “Coming?”

Patrick stares. Jonny’s framed by the strobing light from the dance floor, his hair plastered to his red, sweaty neck, shirt and trousers clinging to his muscled frame. He looks better than anybody Patrick’s seen all night, cocky and demanding and asking for _Patrick_. Jesus. Patrick wants—no. Patrick’s _going_ to fuck him until he’s sobbing from it.

Fucking right, he’s coming.

~

Patrick waits out front, leaning against the brick wall of the club, away from the raucous line and the fluorescent lighting. It takes Jonny ten minutes to make his excuses to the team and meet him outside, ten minutes that Patrick takes to think about anything but how insane this is. How did he end up in a place where he’s picking up _Jonny_ from a gay club in _Vegas_? It’s surreal, and together with the alcohol, easier to just… not think about. Patrick finally spots Jonny looking around for him. Patrick comes up to him, jostling his shoulder to catch his attention.

“C’mon, down the street,” Jonny says, glancing back over his shoulder with a frown. “A couple of them looked like they wanted to head out now, too.”

"Yeah, alright," Patrick says, following him down half a block and around another long line to get into a different club on the strip before Jonny stops and flags down a cab. He lets Patrick slide in first and then follows. Patrick’s ready to sit in tense silence while the cabbie takes them back to their hotel, but Jonny palms Patrick’s knee, squeezing tight and then sliding his nails up the inseam of Patrick’s jeans. Patrick’s dick leaps, hard, and he bites down on his lower lip to keep any sounds in.

He looks over when Jonny lets out a harsh breath. Jonny’s eyes are narrowed but shining in the flickering lights of the street, his lips parted just enough for Patrick to see the press of his tongue against the back of his teeth as Jonny rubs his fingers up the sensitive inside of Patrick’s thigh. Patrick reaches down and grabs his hand before Jonny reaches his dick. “Wait,” he grits out, head spinning. “I want—wait.”

Jonny’s hand curls into a fist under Patrick’s, but he nods and settles back in his seat, letting his hand drop into the space between them when Patrick lets go.

Patrick doesn’t feel any more sober when they get into his hotel room. He’s too turned on to think straight when Jonny shoves him hard against the wall, mouth finding Patrick’s again. Patrick’s head knocks back and he groans as Jonny’s hands press up under his shirt to tug at Patrick’s hard nipples.

"Muh, fu—" Patrick pants into Jonny’s mouth, reaching between them to grip Jonny’s dick through his soft, well-worn khaki pants. Jonny’s thumbs rub across his nipples, and then he pulls back to haul Patrick’s t-shirt over his head, roughly enough that it makes Patrick’s eyes water. "Bed," Patrick gasps, reaching up to clutch at the back of Jonny’s head when he bends to bite at Patrick’s nipples. Patrick shudders and pushes him away; being manhandled by Jonny isn’t what he wants right now. "Gonna fuck you, c’mon."

"Yeah?" Jonny says, straightening up. His voice is husky and challenging, his body warm and sweaty from the club. His mouth tastes like beer and Jagermeister, and Patrick wants to shove his tongue back inside and lick until it’s all he can taste. Jonny’s hands catch on Patrick’s damp skin as he drags them down over Patrick’s ribs and waist and then tucks the tip of his fingers into the waistband of Patrick’s jeans. "Waiting on you here, Peeks," he drawls, snapping Patrick out of his drunken, wide-mouthed contemplation.

Patrick shoves Jonny’s hands away and puts his own on Jonny’s hips, walking him backwards until Jonny’s legs hit the bed. Patrick tilts his face back up for a kiss, and Jonny doesn’t hesitate to slide his tongue across Patrick’s where he’s reaching out to taste Jonny. He deals with Jonny’s belt and fly while their mouths work together, breathless. He’s only barely able to find the coordination to get Jonny’s pants open and shove them hard over his ass, breaking the kiss.

"Up, Jon," he says, coughing to clear the roughness out of his own voice. Heat spikes down Patrick’s spine when Jonny lets Patrick push him onto the bed and drag his pants and boxers down and off. Patrick takes a shaky breath and follows, settling in between Jonny’s legs. He licks across Jonny’s neck, down to his collarbone, into the salty hollow of his throat. Jonny shudders and grinds up against Patrick’s bare stomach.

When Jonny groans out “ _Patrick_ ”, Patrick presses a muffled _fuck_ into Jonny’s skin and pushes up, hand splayed across Jonny’s sternum as he stares down at him. Jonny’s t-shirt is thin and white and soaked with sweat, his nipples tight and obvious underneath. Patrick feels desperate, sick in his gut with how much he wants Jonny, how much he wants—he’s gonna fuck Jonny up or it’s going to kill him.

"Jonny, I want, I need," he tries, fingers curling in until his nails must be digging painfully into Jonny’s pecs.

"Do it," Jonny groans, throwing a hand over his head to push against the headboard and rock down against Patrick’s cock, legs clamping tight around Patrick’s waist.

Patrick shudders and grinds up against Jonny’s ass. His jeans must be rubbing uncomfortably against Jonny’s skin, but the twist in Jonny’s face as his eyes fall shut is all good. Patrick sits back, getting his knees under himself so he can wrap a hand under one of Jonny’s thighs and push it up to Jonny’s chest. Jonny’s beautiful like this, pliant and yielding. Patrick wants to see how much he can take, how far he can push Jonny to take what Patrick wants to give.

His ass is slick with sweat, and Patrick drags his index finger through the crease and pushes in. "Oh god," Jonny says, back curving as he arches into it. Patrick digs in with the fingers on Jonny’s thigh and presses the tip of another into Jonny’s hole, the slide of it rough and dirty and perfect.

“Does it hurt?” Patrick asks hoarsely, working Jonny open. He buries both to the third knuckle, too fast, and curls them up and into Jonny. The tightness around his fingers makes Patrick flush, his cock jerking in his jeans.

“Fuuuck,” Jonny groans, throwing an arm across his face. He’s trembling, thigh twitching under Patrick’s hand, his shoulders arching into the bed. “Yeah, but don’t stop,” he gasps out.

“Shit, Jonny,” Patrick says helplessly. He slides back so he can lean in, balancing awkwardly against Jonny, to lick a stripe up Jonny’s dick while he fucks Jonny steadily with his fingers. Jonny shakes and swears and takes it, begging Patrick not to stop. God _damn it_.

“Patrick, god,” Jonny gasps. His head’s thrown back on the pillow, neck red and eyes squeezed shut. “I want, more, c’mon.”

Patrick can do that, Christ. He lets go of Jonny’s thigh, and Jonny’s foot falls to the bed beside him. “Hold yourself open for me—yeah, yeah babe,” Patrick says, voice going deep and hoarse as Jonny pulls his knees back. He spits, sloppy, on his other hand, and pushes in with third wet finger, working both hands in between Jonny’s cheeks and pulling on the rim of his hole. “You’re so gorgeous,” he pants. “I’m gonna stick my dick in you and just _own_ you.”

“Do it,” Jonny groans. “Please.”

Jesus Christ. Patrick moans hard, whole body shuddering even though nothing’s touching him but Jonny’s ass, clenched tight around his fingers. Shit, he shouldn’t be doing this, maybe not at all, but definitely not like _this_. Patrick pulls his fingers out to the sound of Jonny’s pained whimper.

“Shhh, gorgeous,” Patrick murmurs, curling back in to suck the head of Jonny’s dick into his mouth and suckle at it soothingly. Jonny’s past calming, though, and pushes at his head weakly.

“Get on with it,” Jonny says. Patrick laughs, something hot and delighted welling up as he feels the pulse of Jonny’s dick under his lips, but he pulls back and climbs off the bed to find the lube.

He’s dizzy drunk, dizzy with lust, too, and it takes him for-fucking-ever to find the right side-pocket on his duffle. When he turns back to the bed, Jonny’s up on his knees, watching him with an almost angry expression.

Patrick licks his lips and opens his fly, pulling out his dick with a wince of relief. “How do you want it?”

Jonny’s eyes darken, and he juts up his chin, still and silent. Patrick wonders if he’s supposed to… supposed to _decide_ and _take,_ but Jonny finally twists on his knees, elbows dropping to the bed, ass up and back curved down in an arch that’s pure pornography.

“Right,” Patrick says like an idiot. It’s the last word he can find, dripping lube clumsily down Jonny’s crack, three fingers shoving in with no more grace than before in a halfhearted attempt to make sure Jonny’s loose enough for his cock. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t—Patrick can’t think clearly enough to tell. Jonny bites out a “fuck me,” and Patrick obeys, teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip as Jonny takes his cock, hole a furious red where it’s stretched and shiny around it.

Patrick fucks him like that, wordless and gasping. His hands are so tight on Jonny’s hips they ache from it, nails digging in sharply when Jonny swears at him to go harder and tries to set the rhythm. Patrick holds him still and keeps his pace, sweat dripping down his spine, too hot in his jeans but loving the redness of Jonny’s ass where the zipper’s digging in every time he lays into him. When he wraps his hand around Jonny’s belly and pulls up, cock sliding in until his hips smack up against Jonny’s ass, Jonny comes with a gasping cry, arching his spine up and gripping down tight on Patrick’s cock, hard enough Patrick stops moving just to breathe with Jonny through his orgasm.

“Oh god,” Patrick says, tongue heavy in his mouth. He slides his hands up Jonny’s back, rubbing across the flexing muscle, and then leans his weight down to push Jonny into the bed. “I gotta, I gotta keep going,” he pants. Jonny groans, his hands digging into the comforter beside his head, but he just turns his face to the side and nods, a tiny shift of his head that gives Patrick permission.

Patrick’s arms give out and he plasters himself against Jonny’s back, the cotton t-shirt wet between them. His hands find Jonny’s and their fingers lace together in a slick grip. Patrick digs his teeth into the curve of Jonny’s shoulder above his collar and thrusts in, flexing his hips in dirty-short strokes, Jonny’s thighs cradled between his.

His orgasm is almost unsatisfying with how fast it rushes through him, a heady peak of pleasure that drops off into spinning, sticky drunkenness. His jeans are too tight on his thighs, damp with sweat, but Jonny’s body under him—he’s splayed out and lax and too warm. Patrick never wants to move.

Jonny doesn’t feel the same, it seems. He shoves weakly at Patrick’s hands and mumbles, “move”, shifting under Patrick. Patrick sighs deeply and slides down, enough to pull his cock, still most of the way hard, from Jonny’s ass, and roll off to the side.

They breathe together in silence for a minute, or five. Patrick’s half-asleep and drifting when Jonny groans and pushes up.

“Stay here,” Patrick says sleepily.

“I’m gross,” Jonny says, peeling his t-shirt away from his stomach.

“Yeah, man,” Patrick says, fingers curling into the bedspread. “Me too. We’ll shower and crash, deal?”

“I—”

“Oh, shut up,” Patrick snaps—or would, if his words weren’t slurring together. “You’re not gonna do the walk of shame like this, wear your shirt in the shower and hang it up on the chair, it’ll be dry in the morning.”

Jonny laughs, sounding startled, and then nods. He slides off the bed and heads for the washroom, pausing at the corner to look back at Patrick where he’s sprawled on the bed with his dick softening against his jeans. “Coming?”

Patrick blinks. “Yeah?”

Jonny opens his mouth, brow furrowed, and then shuts it. He shrugs and tries again. “You’ll just fall asleep otherwise. And I’m not sharing a bed with you like that.”

“Dick,” Patrick says, but he’s smiling as he rolls off the bed and follows Jonny to the shower.

~

Patrick blames the pounding headache he wakes up with for his decision to open the door. He hadn’t fucking called for room service, and neither had Jonny, who’s passed out next to him, but the hangover dulls Patrick’s wits just long enough for Sharpy to waltz in with a coffeepot in one hand and a basket of croissants in the other.

"Good morning Peekaboo," Sharpy says cheerily as he shoulders past. "I bring you coffee to soothe your inevitable hangover!"

"Wait, no—" Patrick says stupidly, lurching after Sharpy as he steps past the washroom and into the room. He all but runs into Sharpy when he stops dead at the sight of Jonny, sitting up in bed and looking more awake by the second.

"Shit," Patrick breathes out.

"What the fuck," Sharpy says, putting the coffeepot down with a bang on the dresser, the basket following. "What the—"

"You’re kidding me," Jonny says tightly, red and furious. He turns away to lean off the bed, coming up with his underwear. Patrick swallows.

"This isn’t what it looks like," Patrick says, tugging at the back of Sharpy’s shirt.

Sharpy looks back at him, brow raised in disbelief. “Seriously? Because it looks to me like the team was lacking some important information when we tried to get you laid last night.”

"Get the hell out of here," Jonny bites out, finding his pants and pulling them on roughly.

"No, listen," Patrick says, gripping Sharpy’s arm and turning him around to face him. "This isn’t—it’s just a buddy thing, okay? Jonny’s just, shit, helping me out, okay? It’s not a thing, there’s nothing… it’s not serious, okay?"

If anything, the expression on Sharpy’s face goes darker at that. “Helping you _out_? Are you serious?”

"It’s not a big deal," Patrick says pleadingly. Jonny didn’t sign on to be outed to the team because of him, not to Sharpy, not to anyone. The least he can do is try and make it clear to Sharpy what this is—or isn’t.

"Fucking hell, it’s—since when are you even gay?" Sharpy says to Jonny, twisting out of Patrick’s grip.

"Since it’s never been any of your god-damned business," Jonny spits out, pulling on his t-shirt—dry, like Patrick promised—and kicking his shoes over to the side of the bed.

"Fuck that," Sharpy scoffs, matching Jonny’s tone and stepping up to him. "It’s my god-damned business when my team’s star players are fucking each other for, what, for _fun_? Are you two out of your god-damned minds?”

"Get out of my face, Sharp," Jonny growls, hands curling up between them.

"Sharpy, c’mon," Patrick says as evenly as he can manage. "It’s not that big a deal."

"Not a big deal?" Sharpy shouts, incredulous. "You could fuck up the whole team if this goes balls up! And don’t tell me either of _you_ ,” he says, pointing a finger at Jonny, and then turning it on Patrick, “don’t get how important locker-room dynamics are, or don’t care what this could do to the Hawks. And you’re messing with it for, what? Some drunken roll in the sack?”

Patrick gets his hand fisted in the back of Sharpy’s shirt, pulling him away from Jonny, who looks about half a second away from decking his A, and putting himself between them.

"You need to go," Patrick says shakily, looking up at Sharpy’s murderous glare. He’s never seen him so pissed, not even on the heels of the worst losses when his temper gets frayed thin. It’s never, _ever_ been something Sharpy’s directed at Patrick, either, and it makes Patrick feel sicker than the hangover. "I’ll—we’ll talk, later, but you need to go calm down first."

"You better believe we’re talking about this," Sharpy says, but he listens, doing a heel turn and stalking out of the hotel room. The door slams shut behind him, and Patrick makes a small sound, hands clenched tight beside him as he exhales unevenly.

"Jesus," he says, tripping over his feet to sit on the end of the bed. "Jesus, I’ve never seen him so—"

"He’s right," Jonny interrupts flatly.

Patrick looks up at him. Jonny’s face is red and his mouth is flattened in a tight line. “He’s fucking—Jonny, you know it’s not like that.”

"It is, though," Jonny says, turning away and bending over to pick up his socks. "It’s not… I’ve done this before, okay? Fucked a teammate for—and it was messed up then."

"It was your idea," Patrick says angrily. "If it was such a shitty idea—"

"I thought it would be different, okay?" Jonny says sharply. "I thought with you it wouldn’t…"

"Wouldn’t _what_?” Patrick demands.

Jonny shrugs, a small, tight movement, and then leans against the desk to pull on his socks. Patrick can see that his normally steady-as-a-rock hands are trembling. “I can’t do this, okay? I can’t mess around with a teammate.”

"Fine, I get it," Patrick snaps, tense and shaky and trying to fight the stinging in his eyes, damn it. "I never wanted to mess with—with _us_ , you fucking _know_ that.”

That’s been the deal, this whole time. Just sex, no strings attached. But maybe—maybe Jonny can see how good this got for Patrick, how much more than just sex this became, faster than Patrick noticed himself. Patrick’s an idiot for letting it creep up on him, for coming back for more last night. He curls his hands tight into the bedspread as Jonny shoves on his shoes.

"I know," Jonny says finally, laces flapping loose at his feet as he looks towards the door and back at Patrick.

"Sorry," Patrick says helplessly, looking down at his knees.

Jonny breathes out hard, and he takes a step forward, hand reaching out to graze Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick twitches, shifting away from the touch. “Don’t be,” Jonny says gruffly. “It’s not your fault.”

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away. He waits until he hears Jonny walk out, door opening and closing again, and then curls up on the bed to will the roiling nausea away.

~

They have morning skate at the SAP Center the next day, and Patrick comes into the locker room in time to listen to Shawzy and Steeger whooping it up over Jonny’s marked-up body. Patrick stops abruptly in the doorway. Smitty trips over him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Woah man, sorry," Smitty says, clapping once and squeezing in the room beside Patrick when he doesn’t move. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Patrick says distractedly.

Steeger’s chirping Jonny something fierce, and no shit—he’s got more than one dark bruise on his neck. There’s the one near the back, teeth-marks still obvious from where Patrick bit down, and another above his collarbone that Patrick gave him in the shower, leaning sleepily against his warm chest, unable to keep his mouth off of Jonny. More than that, though, he’s got small bruises along the arc of his hipbones where Patrick dug his nails in to hold on. They disappear under Jonny’s red Under Armour while Patrick stares stupidly. Jonny’s face matches his shirt, and he turns into his stall, away from Steeger.

"Duuude, where did you even find a girl? The hotel bar?" Steeger says with a leer. "You didn’t even go out last night."

"Oh I know," Shawzy pipes up. "He picked up at the _gay_ club on Thursday.”

"Oho," Steeger says, reaching out to try and pull Jonny’s shirt back up. He gets slapped away for his troubles, and from the little Patrick can see of the tight lines of Jonny’s mouth, he’s near to getting more than just a slap. "C’mon Jonny, I need to measure." He waggles his hands in front of him. "See if a lady could have made those marks."

"Back off, Kris," Patrick hears himself saying tightly, and the room swings around to him. Jonny turns, too, and looks at him warningly, but Patrick can’t help the tight fists of his hands by his sides, nor the waver in his voice. "Leave it alone."

"Woah man, sorry," Steeger says, hands held up apologetically. "Didn’t mean that—I mean Tazer can… uh, well." He makes a face. "Is it worse to say I was joking and obviously don’t think that’s true, or that he can fuck dudes if he want and I don’t care? Is there like, etiquette here?"

"I don’t think we’re supposed to assume," Shawzy says, almost thoughtful. "But," he adds, eyes lighting up and heedless of the murder in his eyes. "Dicks or chicks, pretty sure hickies are fair game for mockery. Fucking right, eh Sharpy?"

It’s like a ping-pong tournament. The room turns to where Sharpy’s got his head down, methodically putting on his gear while the rest of them dick around. Patrick’s stomach goes tight as he edges his way over to his stall.

Seabs makes a thoughtful noise. “Man, you’re falling down on your sovereign duty to mock Tazer here, Sharpy,” he says. “Showing up covered in sex-marks, and you don’t have anything to say about it?”

"Nope," Sharpy says flatly, his face hidden behind his hair as he looks down to roll up his socks. "Tazer can fuck whomever he wants. It’s none of my business."

There’s an awkwardly long pause, silence stretching out in the normally bustling, pre-practice locker-room. Jonny himself breaks it, making a displeased sound and walking straight out of the room, half-dressed, with his skates in one hand.

"Oh-kay," Steeger says, looking confused enough to be funny, if Patrick weren’t furious and terrified. "I guess… we’ll just not talk about that then?" He looks at Shawzy, shrugging exaggeratedly. Shawzy raises a shoulder of his own and goes back to talking Bollig’s ear off about how much money he lost in the casino.

Patrick takes his own skates and follows Jonny down the hall. He’s leaning back against the wall while Troy sharpens them, eyes shut and arms folded across his chest.

"Hey," Patrick says, handing his own skates over to Troy and tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. "Sorry I—"

"Don’t," Jonny says, eyes still shut.

"Yeah, but, I wasn’t gonna say anything," Patrick says, voice low and insistent over the whine of the skate sharpener. "You know I won’t, right?"

Jonny opens his eyes but just looks at Troy pointedly. “Not now, Kaner.”

Patrick exhales, nods. “Fine,” he says, and leaves Jonny behind to get ready for practice.

~


	4. four

~

After they lose to San Jose, Sharpy shows up at Patrick’s hotel room before he’s even out of bed. Patrick almost shuts the door in his face, but Sharpy just shoulders in and tells him to get dressed, they’re going for breakfast before the flight to LA. Patrick doesn’t want to do this, but he said they’d talk, so he holds his tongue and puts on clothes and follows Sharpy to the hotel restaurant. The team has a private buffet in an hour in another room, but Sharpy gets a table for the two of them himself and pushes Patrick into a seat in the far corner of the room.

"I really don’t—" Patrick starts, after the server’s brought coffee and orange juice.

Sharpy cuts him off, hands held up placatingly between them. "Wait, before you say anything," he says, "I’m sorry. For how I reacted to that whole thing. I shouldn’t have said the things I did."

Patrick exhales. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

"But," Sharpy goes on. Patrick scoffs and rolls his eyes. "No, listen, _but_. I still think this whole thing is a terrible idea, okay? I’m just not gonna tell you what to do about it. You’re a big boy, you can do whatever you want, but I hope you’re at least thinking about the bigger picture here.”

Patrick scowls and stares down at the menu. “You can’t say you’re not gonna tell me what to do and then, you know, tell me what to do.”

"Oh, come on," Sharpy says, sounding impatient. "I’m your friend, I’m not allowed to give you some advice?"

"Advice?" Patrick asks, incredulous. "Pretty sure your advice is ‘you’re a fucking idiot’, so no, you can’t _give me some advice_. You don’t even know the situation.”

"So enlighten me," Sharpy says, reaching over to poke at the menu, expression determined like he’s not budging until Patrick spills.

"No," Patrick says shortly. He pours some milk into his coffee and slides the little jug of it over to Sharpy grudgingly.

"C’mon, Peeks," Sharpy cajoles. "It’s just me."

Patrick makes a face, leaning back in his chair and cradling his mug in his hands. “Yeah, but it’s not just _me_. It’s not fair for me to talk about Jonny to you, about this.”

"I don’t—I’m not asking for the dirty details,” Sharpy says. “You’re fucking, and I’m guessing that wasn’t the first time—"

"—it was the last, though," Patrick interrupts.

Sharpy pauses, face going blank. “Because of what I said?”

Patrick shrugs. “I dunno. I guess. Might’ve happened anyway.”

"Happened," Sharpy says flatly. "So it wasn’t your idea to end it."

"There wasn’t anything to end, okay?" Patrick says tightly. "We’re just, just… not going to do it again."

"So it was just sex."

"Yes."

Sharpy stares at him, searching, and then takes a long drink of his coffee. “Why?” he asks, finally.

Patrick groans, chin dropping to his chest. It’s Sharpy, he’s never known how to lie to him about anything but being gay, and he’s _done_ with that. He can’t find it in himself to keep his mouth shut about it now. “Because. Because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Because I wanted to fuck guys and Jonny had and it just seemed to make sense, okay? Seriously though, don’t ask me about Jonny, okay? That’s not my shit to tell.”

"I—okay," Sharpy says reluctantly. "But I can ask about you?"

Patrick looks back up and meets Sharpy’s gaze; it’s frank, but open, all the anger from two nights ago gone. Sharpy might be a dick, half the time on purpose, but Patrick’s always trusted him to have Patrick’s best interests at heart. Whatever the circumstances, Patrick can’t feel differently about him now. “Fine, but I reserve the right to not answer anything.”

"Okay," Sharpy says. "So, that wasn’t the first time, right?"

Patrick shakes his head. “No. But, look—I can count the number of times we’ve, you know, on one hand. And the first time was in December. It’s not a regular thing.”

“But you wanted to keep it up,” Sharpy says, because he’s observant when he wants to be. “It was Tazer’s idea to end it.”

"Of course I wanted to keep it up," Patrick says, voice going up. "I—you don’t get it, okay?"

"Then _tell me_ ,” Sharpy says, leaning forward on his elbows. “I want to get it, alright? It looks crazy, absolutely stupid from where I’m sitting, so explain it to me.”

Patrick chews on his lip, taking in Sharpy’s imploring gaze. “It’s….” He sighs, sliding his coffee across the table and sagging against it, elbows knocking at the cutlery. “I wasn’t like, in the closet before. When I was younger.”

Sharpy frowns. “What do you mean?”

"I mean, I didn’t like, fake picking up girls, or have beards," Patrick explains, poking at the—real, it seems—daffodil in the vase between them. "I actually had girlfriends and dated and hooked up and shit. It wasn’t fake or anything, it just…"

"It just what?"

"Sucked," Patrick says with a sigh. "It was always so—it sounds stupid, to admit I didn’t realize that I was, you know, _gay_ , but I didn’t, okay? I didn’t think… it didn’t seem like an option. I was a fucking hockey player. So I fucked girls and hated it and hated myself for hating it.”

"Jesus, Kaner," Sharpy says, looking startled.

"Yeah," Patrick says, snagging his coffee and taking another sip. "I mean, I figured it out, eventually. Probably a while before I could think about it properly, but I guess doing it like that, trying to pretend it wasn’t a thing for so long, once I realized it, I couldn’t, like… I dunno. The idea of sneaking around and shit was terrifying, you know?"

Sharpy tilts his head, considering. “You mean you didn’t have sex with men before you came out.”

"Right," Patrick says tightly. "Yeah."

"So the first guy you slept with…"

"Was Jonny," Patrick finishes, fingers curling around his mug tightly. "And I guess, the only one. For now, at least. So like, yeah, it was good. But anybody—any guy—would have been, right? It’s not like I didn’t want to stop because it was _Jonny_.”

"Did you say that to him?" Sharpy asks, incredulous.

"Sort of, I dunno," Patrick says, tilting his head. "We both knew the deal." Sharpy makes a face at him, and Patrick rolls his eyes. "Come on, is that surprising? It’s sex. We’re like, twenty-five year old dudes."

"Yeah, but…" Sharpy starts, trailing off. Patrick raises his eyebrows, gesturing with one hand for him to go on. "You two have always been weird about each other," Sharpy adds, sounding reluctant. "Just, closer than anybody else, but also not that close all the time? I don’t know. I never could figure out your relationship. I sometimes thought of you of you like brothers, but," he grimaces, "now that comparison is stricken from the record, thanks."

"We’re not weird," Patrick protests. "And fucking, it wasn’t about a relationship. It wasn’t about changing the one we have."

"Please," Sharpy scoffs. "Look me in the eye and tell me sleeping with Tazer didn’t get weird."

Patrick rubs his thumb into his temple where a headache is building, silent. Sharpy stares at him, frank and demanding, until Patrick slumps and looks down at the table. “It got weird,” he admits, voice small.

"Are you in love with him?" Sharpy asks.

Patrick lifts his head sharply, startled into silence. “What?” he manages, when his voice comes back to him. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

"The only important one, don’t you think?" Sharpy asks, gaze level. "So are you?"

"I…" Patrick tries, hands coming up to rub across his mouth and then pull at his hair, a nervous gesture he can’t help. Sharpy watches, eyebrows raised, and Patrick bites down on his lip. "I—shit, Sharpy, he’s—he’s _Jonny_ , you know?” he says helplessly.

"Yeah," Sharpy says with a shrug. "Exactly."

Sharpy pretty much drops it after that, for the rest of breakfast and the next couple of days. Patrick thinks part of that is because the way he and Jonny avoid each other makes it damn obvious that Patrick wasn’t kidding when he said it was over, and partly because Sharpy feels badly for either letting Patrick down as a friend to lean on, or for ruining his not-relationship. Patrick can’t even call it friends with benefits in his head, anymore. Fuckbuddies don’t _break up_ , and the soreness in his chest can’t be called anything but heartache. Jonny avoids meeting his eyes at the rink, and Patrick is privately grateful for it. It’s going to take space, and time, to get over this _thing_ he has for Jonny, and in the middle of the season there isn’t too much of either.

Still, there’s hockey, and with the Olympics less than a week away, the media’s all over the Hawks. It’s nice to have something to talk about other than his weak numbers since January, and the regulars have stopped asking about Russia’s anti-gay laws. Hawks PR’s set up a couple of interviews to cover most of the bases, but the Team USA guys keep harping on him to plan a statement for when he arrives. Patrick doesn’t know what they want him to say, beyond what he’s doing, though.

His dad flies out to watch him play the Kings and the Ducks, which is—well, it’s a distraction, which sucks, because before this season Patrick’s always loved having him in the crowd, cheering him on. Since coming out, though, Patrick hasn’t been sure where he stands with his dad. He’s always been there for Patrick, has always been a huge presence in Patrick’s life, and outwardly that hasn’t changed, but Patrick hasn’t been able to shake the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe that’s just Patrick’s fault, though. Sure, his dad pretty much avoids the topic, but so does Patrick, when they’re together. It’s not like he expects his dad to know what to say, but maybe he’s just waiting for Patrick to start talking.

"Dad," he starts, after trying to psych himself up to it for fifteen minutes, poking at his hash browns over brunch after they played the Ducks.

"Yeah, Buzz?" his dad says, looking up from his eggs.

"I…" Patrick trails off, glancing out the window at the bright sun. "Should I say something about Russia, d’you think? More than I have, I mean."

His dad puts his fork down, deliberately, and looks at him uncertainly. “You’re talking about their anti, uh, anti-gay laws or what have you?”

"Yeah," Patrick says with a sigh, tilting his chair back on two legs. "I keep thinking I can go and play hockey and that’s—that’s enough, right? But…."

"You feel like you should say more, huh?" his dad says, reaching for his coffee.

"Should I?" Patrick asks, wincing at the desperate, child-like sound to his voice. He lets the chair fall forward and clears his throat. "Do you think I’ve got a responsibility to?"

His dad looks at him silently, brow furrowed, like he’s searching something out in Patrick’s face. Patrick stays still, aware he’s holding his breath while his dad watches him. Finally, his dad sighs, a deep, extended exhale, and puts down his coffee.

"You know, when you first came out, I was pretty unhappy about it," he says, and Patrick flinches, unbidden. "Hold on," his dad says, lifting up a palm in supplication. "I’m not saying I was upset with you for being gay. It’s not something I get myself, but I know you didn’t pick this, and I know it doesn’t change who you are. Not to me," he adds, deadly serious as he meets Patrick’s eyes.

"Then what made you upset?" Patrick asks, mouth dry. He slides his coffee towards the edge of the table, hands too unsteady to pick it up to drink.

"I was upset because I thought it would change how other people saw you," his dad says. "You’ve worked so hard, Buzz, for everything you have. To be seen as a hockey player, one of the best in the league, despite how hard it was to get people to take you seriously as a kid. I was worried that if you came out, it would give everyone else a new reason to ignore you, to push you out of your place in this sport."

"They wouldn’t," Patrick objects. "The team would never—"

"I don’t mean you’d lose your contract, or get traded," his dad dismisses. "I mean they’d—the media, the fans—they’d change your story. From one about your success because of your skill and perseverance, to one about you being a gay hockey player, who maybe happens to be pretty okay at it." He shakes his head, a rueful grin passing across his face. "That’s why I tried to convince you not to come out. Not because I was _ashamed_. I’m pretty sure I didn’t do a good job telling you that, though.”

"No," Patrick says, ducking his head down and bringing up his coffee to wet his throat. " I did wonder—yeah." He shrugs. "It was okay, though."

"It wasn’t," his dad says, frowning. "I’m not gonna lie, son, it threw me for a loop. Took me a few weeks to get my head on straight. I should have said something then, though, not let it… I tried to let it go. I didn’t want to push, or make you feel responsible for me. You had enough going on."

"I get it," Patrick says, chewing on his lip. "It was hard for me to get my head on straight about it, too. Took me more than a few weeks." He cracks a weak grin, and his dad returns a more genuine one.

"I’m proud of you, Patrick," he says, and Patrick flushes. "Honest to God, I’m proud of you for working through this, and putting up with the press, and whatever else you’re dealing with, because I’m sure there’s more I don’t know about."

"Uh, a bit," Patrick admits. He’s a little choked up, half at the flush of emotion at his dad’s words, half thinking how very little he wants to tell his dad about the crap with Jonny. Even if he wanted to bring up gay sex with his dad, Patrick’s pretty sure he’d agree with Sharpy about the dangers of it. "But it’s been okay, really. The team, they’ve been better than I dreamed, and even the media’s not so bad."

"Worse lately, with the Olympics," his dad observes.

Patrick nods, shrugging one shoulder and settling back in his chair, heart rate slowing to something less frantic. “Yeah. It’s not as bad as October, but I’m worried if I don’t make some official statement, it’s going to get out of hand. The Team USA PR thinks I need to put something out, not just answer questions in pressers.”

"What do you want to say?" his dad asks, and Patrick pauses. That’s—he’d never thought of it like that, for some reason. His dad gives him a look, half-fond and half-exasperated. "Think about that, first. Then talk to PR once you know. Trust your gut, son. You’re always at your best when you do."

"Yeah, okay," Patrick says, nodding. "Thanks."

"Anytime," his dad says, reaching forward to knock his knuckles against Patrick’s hands where they’re wrapped around his mug. "I mean it, okay? You can talk to me about this stuff, I promise. If I don’t know what to say, I’ll figure it out. That’s my job, alright?"

Patrick grins, blinking against the dampness at the corner of his eyes. His dad just rolls his eyes and tosses him a napkin, but Patrick isn’t fooled, he can see the redness in his dad’s eyes as well. It’s just how their family is.

~

Except there isn’t any time to think about it. He comes back to the hotel after morning skate to find his dad is waiting for him in the hotel lobby and Patrick takes one look at his face and—

It isn’t unexpected. It’s still overwhelming to know, with horrible, undeniable certainty that he’ll never talk to his grandfather again. He tells Leds he’ll catch up with him later, and pulls his dad to the hotel bar. It’s not even noon.

"You have a game," his dad protests.

"Half a drink," Patrick says. "We’ll split one. You know he’d want us to."

"Okay," his dad says heavily. "Yeah, okay."

~

Those three points he scores against the Kings—he wanted the hat trick but given the last couple of months, he’s shaky with relief he made good on the promise he made to score for his grandfather over half a glass of Irish whiskey—are some of the most surreal goals he remembers scoring. Winning the cup in Philly… that had been unreal, but the whole game in LA feels like flying, grief burning deep and making everything on the ice sharper and brighter and somehow clearer. Patrick doesn’t say anything to the team, can’t find the words to say “I’m okay, I just need to _play_ right now”, but after the second period it’s Duncs, of all people, who asks what was up with the salute.

"It’s for my grandpa," Patrick says, quiet, but the room’s silent with curiosity and his voice carries. He ducks his head to knead at his calves. "He, uh—" his voice breaks, and he shakes his head, trying to clear it. "Passed away. This morning."

"Oh man, Kaner," Seabs says, walking over to clap him on the shoulder. "I’m so sorry."

"Thanks," Patrick chokes out. "I don’t—there’s a game, can we just…?" he says, looking up at Seabs desperately. He’s most of the way to crying, but they’re back on ice in eight minutes and he’s got more hockey to play.

"Course," Seabs says, voice deep and reassuring as always. "We’ll win it for him, right boys?"

Patrick fights the tears that well up with the smile brought by the murmur of determined assent that fills the room.

~

Patrick’s post-game interview starts off as a disaster, but he pulls himself together fast enough. Thank god for Tracey and her softball, he could have hugged her when she followed up with her question on the game. He knows he’s going to have to avoid the internet for a couple of weeks, now. He’s sure there will be more than one idiot making allusions to his _emotionality_ having something to do with his sexuality. As if he doesn’t come by it honestly, as if his dad—as if his _grandfather_ —doesn’t also tear up at the drop of a hat. Fuck them, though. He takes Tracey’s question and tries to think about hockey and gets through the rest of his presser without choking up. It’s not much of a victory, but he’ll take it.

He lingers in the showers and through getting changed and packing up. Patrick ends up the last player leaving the room, just the equipment guys still buzzing around when he heads out to the hallway. Patrick’s not expecting to see Jonny leaning against the opposite wall, chin tucked to his chest as he plays with his phone, but Jonny’s clearly waiting for him, sliding his phone into his pocket and stepping forward when he hears the door swing shut.

"Hey, Kaner," Jonny says, a little hesitant.

Patrick just nods in response and starts down the hall, Jonny falling in beside him.

"I, uh—" he stutters, catching Patrick by the elbow and urging him to a stop. "Hey, I wanted to say I’m sorry," Jonny repeats, serious and determined. "Your—he was a good man, knew his hockey. I’m sorry you had to lose him."

Jonny hasn’t seen Patrick’s grandfather in years, not since he stopped being able to travel. Patrick thinks his grandfather hasn’t been to a game in Chicago since rookie year, but back then whenever the Kanes came to town, they’d inevitably drag Jonny along for lunch or dinner with them. “He’s just like you, Patrick,” his mother had said chidingly, when he’d complained the second time that they were coming to see _him_ , why did Jonny have to come? “Spending some time with family—even if it’s not his own—instead of just hockey players is good for both of you.”

But Jonny doesn’t say somebody knows hockey unless they do, and Patrick knows he remembers. He swallows, tucking his hands in his suit pockets, awkward. “Thanks. He, uh, he liked you.”

Jonny smiles, just a little, and grasps Patrick by the shoulder. “That’s—that’s good. I, uh. Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?”

Patrick shrugs under Jonny’s grasp. He wants to fly back to Buffalo and sit with his grandfather and tell him about his goals tonight, he wants to lean forward and press his face to Jonny’s shoulder and stop worrying about _them_ , he wants—shit, it’s all such a mess.

"I don’t know, man," Patrick says finally, shaking his head.

Jonny frowns, but it’s fleeting, and before Patrick can object—as if he even would—Jonny’s pulled him into a hug. Patrick’s arms go up around Jonny’s waist automatically, his hands closing on his forearms behind Jonny’s back, as Jonny wraps his around Patrick’s shoulder blades. Patrick stops thinking about it. He presses his face to Jonny’s shoulder and sinks in, leaning into Jonny’s steadying warmth.

~

Back at the hotel, Sharpy pulls Patrick away from the group waiting for the elevator and to say quietly, “Drinks with the core, yeah?” Patrick can see Seabs talking quietly to Jonny, Duncs hovering behind them.

“I dunno, I’m pretty tired,” Patrick says, looking back at Sharpy when Jonny turns his head towards them.

“C’mon Kaner,” Sharpy says gently. “Tell me you want to be alone right now.”

Patrick gives a reluctant half-shrug, but Sharpy knows him too well and wraps an arm around his shoulder to steer him back to the other three. They get a booth in a dim, quiet corner by the back of the lounge, and Sharpy pushes Patrick in to sit down next to him, Jonny across from him with Duncs and Seabs. Patrick’s stupidly grateful he and Jonny talked—well, if you could call it that, had a thing, a hug, whatever—before this, because otherwise he’s not sure if he’d be able to meet his eyes with Sharpy jostling in close and ordering them all a round of beer.

They talk about the game, for a bit. Well, the other guys do—Patrick slouches back into the booth and lets their voices wash over him without really hearing the words, Sharpy’s knee occasionally knocking into his as he sips his beer.

“…something else, Kaner.”

“Hm?” Patrick says, glancing over at Seabs, who’s gesturing at him with his bottle.

“Stepping up like that, it was pretty amazing,” Seabs says. “I’d have been sobbing like a little girl.”

“I was, didn’t you see my postgame?” Patrick says, scowling down at his beer.

“Hey, none of that,” Sharpy says, punching him in the shoulder.

Patrick scoffs. “As if Patrick Kane, _unsurprisingly crying like a girl_ , won’t be anywhere tomorrow. You _know_ that’s what everyone’ll be thinking, even if it doesn’t get printed.”

“If it is, they’re idiots,” Jonny says.

Patrick shakes his head and scrubs his hand across his face with a sigh. “Fuck. Sorry. I just…” he leans his head back in the booth and slides his beer across the table. “I keep, I can’t stop wishing…” Sharpy wraps a hand around his shoulder and gives him a little shake, and Patrick looks over at him with a watery grin. “He never said anything, you know? When I came out. I hate it, I hate that we were so close and there’s this _one thing_ about me that I never knew how he felt about.” He lets out a breath and leans his elbows on the table, hunching over.

“I didn’t even tell him myself,” he says quietly, scraping his hands through his hair. “I guess dad did it or something, I just… fuck, I was too worried about what he’d say, but now?” He looks up, meeting Jonny’s unhappy gaze across the table. “Now I wish I _knew_ , even if it was bad.”

“If he didn’t say anything bad,” Seabs starts, but Patrick cuts him off.

“My grandpa _always_ had something to say,” he says, shaking his head. “He always listened to me, and then told me what he thought I was missing or what I should do instead or whatever. It was like, our thing, you know? My parents… I didn’t like complaining to them, you know? They did so much for me, you know how it is. So when it got too much I’d talk to my grandpa and he would help me get my head on straight.” He chokes out a laugh, pressing his hands to his face. “I guess he just didn’t know what to say about this one.”

“My grandfather didn’t know what to say, either.”

Patrick looks up at Jonny, startled into silence. Sharpy’s still beside him, and Seabs and Duncs are watching Jonny with matching expressions of confusion.

“Uh,” Patrick says, glancing sideways at Sharpy. “He, uh.”

“Didn’t know what to say about _what_?” Seabs asks levelly.

“About me being bi,” Jonny answers, fingers curling and uncurling around the neck of his beer in front of him.

“Woah,” says Duncs, looking from Jonny to Patrick to Sharpy to Seabs and back to Jonny again. “Wait, was I supposed to know this?”

“No,” Jonny says. “I’m not out.” He shrugs. “Well, sort of not out.”

“Huh,” says Duncs, sitting back in the booth and looking around again. “Then why is nobody else surprised?”

“I told Kaner. Sharpy found out,” Jonny says, and Patrick tenses but Jonny doesn’t elaborate. “Seabs didn’t know, though,” he adds with a frown.

“Sorry, bud,” Seabs says with a grin. “You left your laptop on the couch when you were living with me. Close your damn porn windows or put a password on it, next time. Thanks for finally telling me, though.”

Jonny blushes but doesn’t seem all that perturbed to find out he was a little less in the closet than he’d thought. But then, if his _grandfather_ knows…

“You’re out to your family?” Patrick asks, surprise obvious in his tone.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, rubbing his hand along his jaw and looking back at Patrick. “I mean, I told my parents when I was, I dunno. Sixteen I guess? But, uh, my grandparents found out by accident.”

“ _That_ sounds like a story,” Sharpy says beside him.

Jonny grimaces. “Yeah, well. They were visiting in Winnipeg and, uh, came home early from some show or something. I had a guy over and, uh. Yeah.” He rubs his hand across his forehead. “It was pretty embarrassing.”

“Huh,” Duncs says again, draining his beer. “Wow. I mean. Huh.”

Seabs laughs. “Articulate, bro.”

“Hey,” Duncs says, sounding a little annoyed as he turns to Seabs. “You could have fucking told me.”

“Nah,” says Seabs, smiling at Jonny and then elbowing Duncs. “Figured Jonny-boy would speak up when he was ready. After Kaner came out, I figured it’d just be a matter of time.”

“Ugh,” Jonny says, pushing his empty bottle across the table. “Anyway,” he presses on, like the fact that he just sort-of came out to Duncs and Seabs—does this mean he’s gonna tell the whole team? Patrick wonders, feeling lost and bewildered—doesn’t even bother him. “My grandfather didn’t say a word. Like, they walked in and then walked out and my grandmother made fun of me later but my grandfather?” He shrugs. “Nothing for five years.”

“What happened after five years?”

“I brought a girlfriend with me to Quebec, Gabby,” Jonny says, leaning back in the booth with a grin. “He pulled me aside two days into the visit and sat me down and told me very seriously that I need to be true to myself and not let what anybody else thinks keep me from being happy.”

“Woah, dude,” Seabs says, marveling. “What did you say?”

“Oh, god, just tried to convince him I was into girls, too,” Jonny says, shaking his head. “I don’t think he believed me, though. My mom says he gets all disapproving anytime he hears about a girl of mine. So yeah,” he says, smile dropping away as he looks back at Patrick. “He didn’t say anything for five years, but it turns out it was just ‘cause he didn’t think it was his business, as long as I was happy, you know? I bet your grandfather just didn’t feel like it was his place to say anything, either.”

“Maybe,” Patrick says, a little reluctant, but he settles back into the booth anyway, giving Jonny a half-hearted smile. “I didn’t know your parents knew,” he says, frowning.

Jonny shrugs. “It was a long time ago. I don’t think about it much.”

Patrick’s lost for words, and lets the others pick up the conversation again beside him. They only make it another ten minutes, eyes and limbs heavy from the long day and the game, before paying the bill and heading up to their floor. Patrick knows, distantly, that he’s an overtired, overwrought mess, but he follows Jonny to his room anyway, ignoring Jonny’s confused, protesting noise as he pushes past to beat Jonny inside.

“Kaner—” Jonny starts.

“What the fuck, man,” Patrick says, voice a little unsteady as he folds his arms across his chest. “You could have given me a heads up.”

“About what?” Jonny says, looking bewildered.

“About coming out to the guys, _asshole_.”

Jonny’s confused frown deepens as he crosses his own arms across his chest. “What—why? Like, what, like you did?”

“It’s not the same!” Patrick shouts.

“How?” Jonny demands, unfolding his arms and turning up his palms.

Patrick scoffs and steps closer, chin tilted up aggressively, hands tucked tight under his arms so they don’t shake. “Because, I don’t know,” Patrick says with a sneer. “Because we weren’t sleeping together then?”

“We’re not sleeping together _now_ ,” Jonny says loudly, and Patrick flinches, turning away. Jonny stops him with a hand wrapped around Patrick’s bicep, pulling him back. “What the fuck,” Jonny says a little quieter. “Why do you care if I want to tell people the truth?”

Because—because—Patrick tries to wrench out of Jonny’s grip, but he’s exhausted and Jonny holds tight, so all he succeeds in doing is tripping back against the dresser, Jonny following to hover over him. “You said it would fuck things up,” he says, chin on his chest. “You said it would make things harder.”

“Not—I _offered_ to come out,” Jonny snaps, fingers flexing into Patrick’s muscles, digging in tight. “I said I would and you said not to. But you don’t—fucking hell, if I want to, I’m _going_ to.”

“I said not to _for me_ ,” Patrick snaps back, voice cracking. He looks up at Jonny’s dark, narrowed eyes, his own burning at the corners, and swipes the back of his hand across his face. “I said you shouldn’t come out for me, you fucker, because all you ever said was—but you—you’ve never been in, not really,” he finishes, bewildered and biting down hard on his lower lip to keep it from trembling. He could deal, he could fucking deal with all of this when he thought Jonny just didn’t want the struggle of being out, but not… shit, if Jonny’s always been out to everyone who matters, makes coming out to his closest friends look as easy and effortless as it was hard and impossible for Patrick, and _still pushed him away_ …

“It’s not for you,” Jonny says, low and toneless. He lets Patrick go. “I wouldn’t put that on you, okay?”

Patrick takes a shaky breath and looks away. He can still feel the hard press of Jonny’s fingers where they were digging into his arm, wants them back, even if they bruise. “Okay,” Patrick says in a hoarse whisper. “Fine. I get it.”

“It’s not gonna change anything,” Jonny says stiffly, stepping away until he’s up against the bed. “Nobody’s gonna think—I’ll make it clear we’re not involved, okay? But I can’t…” Patrick looks up and catches Jonny’s twisted, troubled expression, before Jonny rubs a hand over his face and comes up looking nothing but exhausted. “Go to sleep, Kaner. It’s been a shitty day, let’s not make it worse.”

“Fine,” Patrick says hollowly. “Fine.”

Jonny reaches out as Patrick heads for the door, fingers catching Patrick’s bare wrist and making Patrick flinch and look over. Jonny purses his lips but just pulls his hand away. “I’m sorry.”

Patrick doesn’t know if it’s for his grandfather, or for fucking Patrick up so good, or something else Patrick can’t begin to discern. None of it’s Jonny’s fault, not even the second one, so he just nods and leaves Jonny standing by his bed with his fingers curled tight into fists by his sides.

~

Patrick ditches his phone in his bedroom at his parents’ house. He’s got too much family around to deal with distant condolences, and he’s got zero interest in another frustrating conversation about Sochi with the Team USA people, so he ignores it until puck drop. His dad’s set the game up on the television in the family room, but Patrick hates watching Hawks’ games when he can’t play, so he figures he’ll keep an eye on it on his phone and hang out in the kitchen or something.

He grabs it off his dresser and flicks absently through his missed texts and emails, leaving the ones he figures are just more condolences or words of support. Most of the team’s texted, which seems excessive, since they just saw him in person yesterday, but his thumb lingers on Jonny’s name before he flicks it open. He frowns when he sees the whole series of them from the morning, not long after Patrick got up.

_since you wanted a heads up, i figured i should tell you before this time_

_i’m gonna tell the guys first after practice_

_just about me, i mean. obviously._

_anyway, media at the post-game, or something_

“Jesus,” Patrick breathes out, the edges of his phone digging into his fingers he’s holding it so tight.

He texts back _what the hell_ and then realizes there’s no way Jonny’s gonna see that for hours. Patrick bites down on his lower lip and hesitates, thumbs hovering, before following up with _sorry, just surprised. If it’s what you want to do then obviously I’ve got your back_.

Patrick keeps his phone in his hand when he goes back downstairs and makes Jackie slide over on the couch. All his sisters like hockey okay, but Jackie’s the only one who really gets into it for reasons other than Patrick being in the game. Jess likes to make snarky comments about basketball being way more exciting, and Erica just doesn’t have the attention span to follow the whole game. It’s Jackie who watches games at home with mom and dad when they can’t come to watch them live, Patrick knows, and yells at the team and the coaches and the refs and Patrick through the TV as loudly as their parents. Patrick can’t remember the last time he actually watched a game with her, though, so he slings an arm around her shoulder and tugs her tight against his side while she squirms and protests.

“What are you _doing_ , Patty,” she gasps out as he tickles her, kicking herself free and trying to hold him at bay. “I’m trying to watch the stupid game.”

 “What, I can’t watch it with my baby sis?” he says with an exaggerated pout.

“Not if you’re going to be a dick about it,” she says, kicking him in the thigh.

“Jackie,” their mom says sternly, coming into the room. “Don’t hurt your brother.”

“As if I could!” Jackie protests, but this time when Patrick pulls her in she curls her feet up under herself and leans against him. “You’re stupid,” she mutters, and Patrick laughs and tugs on her hair.

“Sure, Jacks,” he says, leaning his chin on her head and trying to focus on the game. “You’re probably right.”

~

Jonny doesn’t even make it to the post-game, because he does the first intermission interview. Patrick thinks he must have told the reporter to ask how he feels about the anti-gay laws in Russia, because that kind of thing doesn’t usually end up in these interviews, but Jonny takes the chance and calmly says that he can’t do anything about Russian laws, but as a bisexual hockey player, he wants to do everything in his power to make it clear to LGBT youth in North America and wherever else that nobody should stop you from being yourself and reaching your dreams. Or something—Patrick honest-to-god couldn’t repeat more than a couple of words of it, his pulse is racing so hard as Jonny talks, straight to the camera, like he’s keeping eye-contact with Patrick the whole way through.

Jackie’s gone still at his side, and the quiet conversations in the room have died down completely. Only the sound of Jonny’s steady voice answering the reporter’s stuttered follow-ups fills the room.

“Woah, did you know about this, Patty?” Erica demands, standing in the doorway with a couple of beers in her hands.

Patrick nods blankly and reaches out, making a grabby hand until she pushes one of the cold bottles into it. “Yeah, I knew.”

“Cool,” Jackie says, sinking back into the couch. “You’re on like, team gay now.”

“ _Jacqueline_ ,” their mom says sharply.

“What? It’s true!”

“Don’t be stupid, Jacks,” Jess says, rolling her eyes.

The room descends into a loud argument, and Patrick dodges Jackie’s waving hands and escapes to the kitchen, where it’s quiet and he can down the beer in one go without his mom disapproving. When he finishes it and drops it on the counter, his dad comes in.

“Hey, Buzz,” he says, looking at the empty bottle. Patrick flushes, but his dad just opens the fridge and pulls out two more, twisting off the caps and handing one to Patrick. “You alright?”

“I knew,” Patrick says, coughing to clear his throat when it comes out hoarse. “I’m not surprised by it or anything.”

“You sure look it,” his dad observes.

“I didn’t know he was gonna come out, that’s all,” Patrick says with a shrug. “I mean, he texted me, but I just got them just before the game.”

“Did you not want him to?” his dad asks shrewdly.

“Why would I not—” Patrick cuts himself off with a frown. “It’s his business.”

His dad tightens his mouth and then pulls out a chair at the kitchen table, sitting down and nodding at the one across from him. Patrick reluctantly takes it.

“You know I wasn’t thrilled with how the Hawks marketed you, when you were a kid,” he says, taking a drink and then looking back at Patrick. “All the Kane and Toews, together forever bullcrap.”

“Dad—”

“And obviously Jon has to do what’s best for him, I’m not saying otherwise, but you know this is just going to play into that,” his dad finishes, a little fast. “You aren’t worried about what the press is going to assume, with you both being out?”

“What are they gonna assume?” Patrick asks, a little belligerent as he juts up his chin and stares down his dad. “That we’re sleeping together, right?” Because that might even be _logical_ , except somehow completely the opposite is true. They’re _not_ and _now_ Jonny is out, because Jonny thinks the other way around would be a terrible idea, or something. Sleeping with a teammate would fuck with everything, but having everyone _think_ they’re sleeping together, that’s a-okay.

His dad flinches but doesn’t look away, leaning forward over the table. “I’m just saying you’re going to have to consider your response to this, because people are going to make wrong assumptions—”

“They won’t be wrong,” Patrick snaps, frustration and not a little fury at Jonny being so fucking confusing welling up and spilling over.

His dad blinks, sitting up straight. “Oh.”

“I, shit,” Patrick says, anger rushing out as he slumps back into his chair. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, you can tell me this,” his dad says with a frown. “I meant it when I said you can come to me.”

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s not that, I know you… it’s not really true, though. We’re not together, and we aren’t, you know,” he flushes, because he’s calmed down enough to be embarrassed about it. “Not now.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and looks away. “But we, uh, have. So I just… I dunno, I guess we’re just gonna lie about that. Cause you’re right, they’re going to ask.”

“It’s nobody’s business,” his dad says flatly. “If they ask you and you don’t want to tell them, don’t feel guilty for lying.”

Patrick shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Have you talked it over with Jon?”

“Not really?” Patrick says, making a face. “I guess a bit, and I know he’s not going to say anything about… so yeah, that’s all good.”

“Is it?” his dad asks impassively.

Patrick rubs his fingers into his temple and gives his dad a weak smile. “It’s—well, it is.”

“Hm,” his dad says, but he doesn’t push it further. They finish their beers in contemplative silence, until Jackie hollers that the second period is starting.

“It’ll be okay, son,” his dad says quietly, clapping him on the shoulder as they head back to the family room. “Trust your gut, remember?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, knocking his elbow against his dad’s. “I won’t forget.”

~

Between his grandfather’s funeral, the long flight, and the time change, Patrick’s drained for the first couple of days in Sochi. He spends as much time as possible with his new teammates anyway, trying to get the necessary camaraderie going before they start playing, but he’s never been the most vocal guy in the room to begin with, and that’s even more apparent now. His teammates seem to be willing to cut him some slack, though Patrick’s not sure if it’s because of his grandfather or because, well. He gets a couple comments in the room, mostly just awkward attempts at jokes that don’t quite work. He ignores it, doesn’t flinch or speak up—they aren’t the Hawks, they haven’t had months to get used to him being out and in the room. Patrick honestly doesn’t have the energy to care.

He meets up with Sharpy after a Team Canada practice, the day before the prelims start, and he feels guilty for how much more relaxed he is as they walk through the compound back to the Canadian quarters. When they get back to Sharpy’s room, he throws himself on the other—Jonny’s, he figures—bed with a groan while Sharpy changes.

“All right there, Peeks?” Sharpy asks, digging through his drawers in underwear.

“No,” Patrick says grumpily, and then sighs. “I’m fine. I’m just being lame.”

“It’s not been the greatest couple months for you, huh?” Sharpy says, pulling on pants and and a t-shirt while Patrick. “The Americans treating you okay?”

“Sure,” Patrick says. He rubs his hand across his mouth and props himself up better against the headboard. “They’re not you guys, but they’re trying.”

“Nobody’s ‘us guys’,” Sharpy says with a grin, sitting down on his bed. “The Canadians are pretty great, though. Too bad you’re stuck with the _Americans_.”

“Hey, I have it on good authority you care deeply about several lovely Americans. I mean, not just me,” Patrick says, laughing.

“Got me there,” Sharpy says with an exaggerated sigh. “Seriously, though, are you doing okay?”

“Just looking forward to things being normal and boring for a while, I think,” Patrick answers, tilting his head back against the headboard of the bed.

“Well, at least Jonny’s bomb is gonna take some heat off you back in Chicago for a while,” Sharpy points out. “You shoulda seen Shawzy’s face, Peeks,” he adds, smirking. “And PR was _furious_ , he didn’t even warn them, let alone clear what he wanted to say with them.”

“Wow, that’s…” totally like Jonny, when he gets an idea in his head about what has to be done. Once he’s decided to do something he follows through; Patrick’s seen enough game-tying goals to know the truth of it. “You don’t care?” Patrick asks, a little hesitant. “I mean, you don’t think it’ll fuck with the team?”

“What? No!” Sharpy protests. “Why would I think that?”

Patrick sits up straighter and swings his feet to the floor. “You said so?” he says.

“I did _not_ ,” Sharpy says, leaning forward between the beds. “I said you two fucking and pretending it wasn’t a _thing_ would fuck up the team. Not—Jesus Christ—not you guys being out. I’d never… shit, Kaner,” he says, frown deep and unhappy. “I didn’t mean to make you think I want you to go back in the closet for the good of the team. Or keep Jonny in it.”

Patrick blows out a breath, teeth digging into his lower lip as he worries it. “I didn’t think that, not really,” he says after a moment. “But maybe Jonny did? I dunno why he’d suddenly come out, otherwise.”

Sharpy’s frown twists into a skeptical expression. “Really? You have no idea why he might come out? None at all?”

Patrick rolls his eyes and shifts back to lean against the headboard again, looking away from Sharpy’s probing gaze. “It’s not like that,” he says again. “He said he wouldn’t come out for me. Which makes sense, because we _aren’t dating_.”

“You don’t think he might want to?” Sharpy asks.

“I know he doesn’t want to,” Patrick replies shortly.

Sharpy looks like he wants to say something else, but the door opens and the man in question walks in, freezing when he sees Patrick sitting on his bed.

“Uh, hey Kaner,” Jonny says, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck.

Sharpy stands up quickly and says, “I’m going to see what’s going on for dinner,” before making a rapid exit and leaving Jonny standing awkwardly by the door, Patrick still sprawled out on his bed.

“Hey,” Jonny says again, taking half a step forward.

“Hey man,” Patrick says, refusing to make this more uncomfortable than it already is. “Congrats, by the way.” Jonny blinks, and Patrick rolls his eyes. “On coming out? I didn’t text you back after, but I saw your intermission interview.”

“S’okay,” Jonny answers, coming all the way into the room and hovering at the end of the bed. “You were busy. How was the funeral?”

Patrick shrugs. “Awful. Amazing.”

Jonny sits down carefully on the edge of the bed, hip at Patrick’s stretched-out knees, a half-smile on his face. “Sounds about right.” He reaches out, hand stilling mid-air only for a moment before he wraps it around Patrick’s knee and squeezes tight.

Patrick blinks heavily and rolls his shoulders to get the tension out of them before looking back at Jonny. “What made you change your mind?” he asks.

Jonny doesn’t pretend to not get the question, just tightens his fingers on Patrick’s knee before letting go to rub at his mouth. “I know you said not to—” he holds up a hand at Patrick’s protesting noise “—I know _I_ said it would be better not to, right? That it’d be a PR disaster and way too complicated for what it is, for me, but I just…” he trails off, looking down at the bedspread. “I wanted to do the right thing.”

“You weren’t _obligated_ —”

“—I know, okay?” Jonny says, cutting him off and looking up. “I didn’t have to, not for you, not for the media, not for—not for _anybody_ , I get it, okay? But that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel like an asshole, every time I answered a question about _you_ , about being fine with having a gay player on my team, about how gay kids should feel comfortable in sports, or how Russia’s laws were crap… all that bullshit when I wasn’t even telling the truth about _me_.” He’s breathing loudly by the end of it, fingers dug into the bedspread beside his hip, forehead creased as he stares at Patrick like he’s daring him to argue.

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick says tensely. “I get it.”

Jonny shakes his head. “You came out for you. So you could _be_ you. I get that, and maybe it’s a better reason, but it’s not why I did it. I never had a problem being bi and not being out.” He shrugs, reaching out to graze his hand along Patrick’s leg before pulling it back and sitting up straighter. “But then, I never wanted to date guys, so.” Jonny cracks a weak, lopsided grin. “Hooking up is easier to do closeted than relationships, I guess.”

“We did okay at the hooking up,” Patrick deflects with a grin, ignoring the tight knot in his stomach at the confirmation. He _knew_ Jonny hadn’t because of him, it wasn’t a surprise, but it still sucks to hear Jonny say it. “Except when Sharpy found out, I guess.”

Jonny winces. “Yeah, that was…”

“Unfortunate,” Patrick finishes diplomatically, and Jonny cracks a genuine grin before sobering up again, shifting so he’s not half-falling off the bed and folding a leg up until his knee is pressed to Patrick’s thigh.

“I’m sorry I freaked out,” Jonny says. “I was, I dunno. Surprised, and hung over.” Jonny rolls his eyes. “I overreacted.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you saying you want to, you know, still?” Jonny hesitates, and Patrick’s pulse jumps.

“We shouldn’t,” Jonny says, but it’s reluctant, and he drops a hand back onto Patrick’s knee, fingers sliding across the fabric. “It’s still… it’s still a bad idea.”

“Was it ever a good one?” Patrick asks, low and rough, and he can see the flush spread high across Jonny’s cheekbones. He’s already messed up enough about this, about Jonny—he should walk away _now_. Instead, he splays his legs on the bed, just a little, as Jonny curves his fingers to the inside of Patrick’s knee. Jonny’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, fingers digging in tight and then relaxing to smooth along the fabric of Patrick’s pants.

“No,” Jonny says, voice like gravel and eyes dark and honest as he looks up. “So we should stop.” But he slides his hand up the inside of Patrick’s thigh, so, so slowly, like he’s giving Patrick time to say _no_.

The door clicks open, making Patrick start and Jonny freeze, his hand hot and still on Patrick’s thigh. It’s Sharpy, only this time he stops in the doorway, expression blank as he watches them. Jonny looks over at him, and Patrick can see the sharp defiance in his expression.

“We’re heading out for dinner,” Sharpy says. “You wanna join us?”

Jonny shakes his head. “I’ll catch up later.”

Sharpy runs a hand through his hair, gaze flicking between Jonny and Patrick before he nods. “Alright. See you later,” he says, grabbing his jacket and shutting the door as he leaves.

There’s a beat before Jonny turns back where Patrick takes a breath and tries to think, but as soon as Jonny’s looking at him with a hot, heavy gaze, Patrick can’t think, doesn’t want to anymore.

“If you want to stop,” Jonny says quietly, thumb drawing distracting circles on Patrick’s thigh. “Say no,” he finishes, and it’s almost pleading. Patrick should, but shit, he wants Jonny so bad, and the heavy press of his dick against his fly too obvious to deny, even to himself.

Instead he shifts against the headboard, sliding down and cocking his knee out. Jonny’s hand slides up, making Patrick twitch and say, “What happens in Sochi, right?” He reaches down to wrap his fingers around Jonny’s wrist and pull his hand up until Jonny’s palm presses against Patrick’s cock. Jonny’s mouth opens, tongue flicking out to lick at his lower lip as he cups Patrick, unmoving. “Jonny?” Patrick asks, uncertain until Jonny squeezes and rubs his thumb up the line of Patrick’s dick.

“Yeah,” Jonny says roughly. “What happens in Sochi.”

~


	5. five

~

There’s a moment of stillness, everything frozen in place but Jonny’s hand, working on Patrick’s cock, and Patrick’s tongue, rubbing against his lip, while they watch each other. Patrick breathes in deeply and then drops his head back against the headboard, just as Jonny pulls away and stands up.

"Gonna lock the door," Jonny says before Patrick can protest, going over and turning the lock and hooking the chain across it. Patrick doesn’t think Sharpy’s going to be back anytime soon, but better safe than sorry, this time.

When Jonny comes back he stops at the end of the bed, hands flexing open and closed by his sides. Patrick wets his lips and tilts his head to the side, watching Jonny’s eyes follow Patrick’s hand as he slides it along his own hip and presses alongside his erection, the fabric of his pants pulling tight over the bulge of it.

"Take off your shirt," Patrick says, so low it’s almost a growl. Jonny jerks his head up, flush high on his cheeks. "C’mon," Patrick urges, spreading his legs further and sliding the ball of his thumb, teasingly light, over the head of his dick. He’s aching, cock stiff and belly tight, but he wants to watch, not be watched. He wants to _see_. "Take it off."

"You first," Jonny says, widening his stance and crossing his arms over his chest.

Patrick grins and sits up to drag his shirt over his head and toss it aside, and then brings his hands down to his fly before stilling them and cocking his head expectantly. Jonny rolls his eyes but strips his shirt off. Patrick’s not buying the reluctance, though, because the flush on Jonny’s cheeks spreads down his neck and chest as Patrick stares at him. It’s a good view, fuck—it’s not fair that Jonny manages to look tan in the dead of winter ( _Québécois_ genes, he’d said once, with a falsely modest shrug), but he does, a picture of golden skin over delineated muscle. Patrick knows exactly what it feels like to run his hands all over him, to watch the flush deepen and spread with the press of Patrick’s fingers to the sensitive skin of his neck and stomach and hips and thighs.

"Keep going," Patrick says, working his own fly open with deft flicks of his hands. He lifts his hips as Jonny pushes down his track pants and boxers, the hard curve of his dick bobbing free as Patrick works his own pants down his hips, just far enough to hook his boxers under his balls, nestling them up tight against the base of his dick. Patrick rubs his palm over the shaft of his dick as Jonny steps out of his clothing and stands as if at attention, as if he’s waiting for Patrick to say what’s next. Patrick shivers, biting down on his lower lip when Jonny spreads his palms forward in supplication, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"You actually want to do anything, or just look?" Jonny asks, dry.

"Why not both?" Patrick says, eyes drifting over Jonny, from his dark, steady eyes down to where his toes are curling into the shitty carpet, the only outward sign that Jonny’s impatient and itching to get going. It strikes Patrick as crazy, all of a sudden, how easily Jonny lets Patrick call the shots, how he has from the start, right from his very first, stuttered suggestion that they give this a try. Jonny’s the one with all the experience, all the history and practice and technique, and Patrick’s not yet over the fact that he even can look, but Jonny stands still and waits for Patrick to make the play. Patrick’s dick twitches under his palm, and he presses down, flexing his stomach to give him something firm to push against.

"Touch yourself," he says softly, nodding at Jonny’s erection. Jonny makes a small, disgruntled sound, but he wraps his thumb and forefinger around his dick and starts working the foreskin over the head in a light stroke. Patrick hums, pleased, stretching his legs out in front of him to kick off his pants and boxers as he watches. "I used to hear you jerking off in our hotel rooms when we were younger, you know," he says, easy, even though it hadn’t been, not then.

"Yeah?" Jonny says, bringing up his other hand and rubbing his fingertips across the head of his dick. Patrick can see the slick smear of precum from here. "I thought you were asleep."

Patrick shrugs. “It wasn’t often, so if you did it every night, then I guess I usually was. But every now and then, I’d hear you.”

"Sorry," Jonny says, but it’s rote and Patrick can tell he doesn’t mean it. "Never liked jerking off in the showers."

"I do not get that at all, dude," Patrick says with a grin.

"Big surprise there," Jonny says sarcastically. Patrick laughs and slides his feet to the floor, coming round to stand in front of Jonny, just out of range of his hand on his dick.

"It was so hot," Patrick says, nearly a whisper in the small space between them. "I couldn’t stand it. I’d get so hard, Jonny, and I tried to believe it was just… anybody would have, right? With somebody getting off right there?" He shakes his head, like he’s clearing water from his ears, and looks up at Jonny. Jonny’s frowning, and Patrick reaches up to smooth out the creases on his forehead, before trailing his fingers down Jonny’s temple and along the line of his jaw. Jonny shivers and turns his face into Patrick’s touch, hand stilling on his dick between them. Patrick pushes back, turning Jonny’s head to the side, and scrapes his nails down the side of his neck, hard enough to leave thin pink marks.

Jonny exhales, eyes blinking shut as Patrick brings both hands to Jonny’s chest to smooth across his pecs and run the pads of his thumbs against Jonny’s nipples. “I couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like, to be able to see as well as hear,” Patrick says, tilting his head down to look at Jonny’s dick, held loosely in the palm of Jonny’s hand. When he presses his hands around Jonny’s ribs, under his arms, it twitches and Jonny tightens his grip. “I want to see, c’mon,” Patrick urges, stroking his hands down to Jonny’s hips and squeezing tight.

There’s a moment where Jonny doesn’t move, like he’s thinking about saying _no_ , but when Patrick looks back up again, Jonny nods and says, “Alright. Sit back down.” Patrick flushes hot and swallows, nodding back and moving back to sit on the bed again. He’s expecting Jonny to stay standing, out of Patrick’s reach, while he jerks off, but instead Jonny follows him to the bed and slings a leg over Patrick’s to kneel above him. They aren’t really touching, just the inside of Jonny’s knees brushing against Patrick’s hips, but if Patrick wanted to he could lean forward and lick the pink, sticky head of Jonny’s dick.

Patrick licks his lips as he thinks about it, and Jonny’s eyes darken. “You wanna suck it?” Jonny asks, starting up a slow, smooth stroke. “Or you wanna watch?” _Your call._

"Watch," Patrick says, but he presses his palms to Jonny’s thighs, warm and flexed as Jonny holds himself up over Patrick, dark hair soft and sparse and Patrick rubs along them. "And touch."

Jonny nods and brings up his free hand to brace himself against the headboard beside Patrick’s head, and starts working his dick steadily. Patrick shifts back against the pillows and lets his hands wander, tracing up the cut of Jonny’s abs and over his firm pecs to cup the caps of his shoulders as they shift with Jonny’s strokes. Jonny keeps his eyes fixed on Patrick while Patrick drinks him in, looking back up at Jonny’s face to catch the flutter of his eyelashes and the red stain across his cheekbones, before he lets his gaze drift back down to where Jonny’s fisting his dick in a slow, even rhythm. It’s so good, seeing the arousal in every line of his perfect body, trembling thighs and swollen cock and flushed chest, seeing everything Patrick tried not to imagine in the darkness with his fingers curled tight and shameful around his own dick.

When Patrick trails the fingers of one hand over the Jonny’s flexing bicep and down along his tense forearm, Jonny shudders, a helpless, full-body thing. A groan catches low in Patrick’s throat as he wraps his hand loosely around Jonny’s fist. Jonny’s pace falters, and Patrick squeezes tight, his own fingers sliding between Jonny’s where they’re wrapped loosely around his dick.

“Don’t stop,” Patrick says, rubbing his thumb along the wet slit. Jonny lets out a breath and picks up the pace again. Patrick makes a murmured, approving noise before letting go to slide his hands over every bit of Jonny’s skin within reach, soft passes of callused palms that have Jonny arching into his touch.

When Patrick first lets his hands dip low on Jonny’s back, fingers trailing along the arch of muscle below the dimples along his spine, Jonny lets out a gasping “oh, fuck” and squeezes his dick tight, eyes screwed shut. Patrick smiles and jostles Jonny’s arm with his own. “Don’t hold back, babe,” he says, low and soothing.

“Fuck you,” Jonny says, bitchy despite the hitch in his voice as Patrick skims his hands lower and cups his cheeks lightly. “Oh—”

Patrick sinks back, shifting down so he can reach all the way around and pry Jonny’s cheeks apart with the tips of his fingers.

“I’m gonna come all over your face if you aren’t careful,” Jonny warns, thighs stiffening but hand still moving on his cock, faster now.

Patrick feels the corner of his mouth turn up, cheek dimpling as he grins up at Jonny. “That a promise?” he says, tongue sliding across his lower lip. Jonny groans loudly and tilts his head back, looking away. Patrick slides his middle finger deep between Jonny’s cheeks to rub down his crack and press against the hot rim of Jonny’s hole, feeling it twitch as Jonny shudders over him. “Come on me, Jonny,” Patrick rasps, stroking across Jonny’s hole lightly and watching Jonny’s face twist with pleasure. “Do it, come on.”

“God,” Jonny gasps, and Patrick feels it under his fingertip, the pulse of Jonny’s hole a warning for the first, heavy spurt of come out of Jonny’s dick. It catches Patrick at the corner of his mouth and along his chin, and it’s instinct to open and lick out and catch the next with his tongue. Patrick feels himself flush hot as Jonny paints his cheeks and lips and chin sticky-white-hot with come. Jonny’s making noise the whole time, a litany of _gods_ and _fucks_ that breaks into _Pat Pat Pat_ when Patrick presses the tip of his finger inside, greedy for the clench of Jonny’s body around whatever he’ll take of Patrick’s.

Patrick pulls out and lets go when Jonny sags over him, letting him drop his weight back onto Patrick’s thighs. Jonny’s panting, cock cradled in his hand as he milks out the last few drops of come onto the skin of Patrick’s hip with his thumb pushing up the shaft.

“Holy fuck, Peeks,” Jonny says weakly, reaching out between them. His hand falters, inches from Patrick, and then Jonny’s eyes narrow as he closes the gap and slides his thumb along Patrick’s bottom lip, smearing sticky come across and then pushing into Patrick’s mouth. Patrick closes on Jonny’s thumb, eyes flicking shut as he sucks, and Jonny swears again over him. “You’re— _shit._ ”

“Mmm,” Patrick hums, eyelids heavy, but his dick is, too. When Jonny pulls his thumb out and leans over him to tug a few tissues out of the box on the bedside table, Patrick’s pressingly aware of the ache of it, of the need to get off, _now_. “Jonny, I want—”

“Yeah,” Jonny says roughly, and Patrick has to shut his eyes again when Jonny starts cleaning him off.

Fuck, the intimacy of it, the rough slide of the shitty kleenex along his cheeks—Patrick can feel the sharp prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes, unexpected and inescapable. He reaches up to push Jonny’s hand away and take the tissues to do it himself. “I got this,” he says, hoping Jonny will mistake the choked-up sound of his voice for arousal. “Can you get _that_?” He twists his lips into a grin and flicks his eyes down to his cock, a fat weight along his belly.

Jonny rolls his eyes to the ceiling, but slides back until he’s curved over Patrick’s thighs, one hand pressed to the bed beside Patrick’s hip, the other wrapping around the Patrick’s dick. Jonny just holds it, like he’s sizing it up in his palm, and Patrick shifts against the sheets, tossing the tissues on the floor beside the bed. “Not bad, eh?” he says archly, trying to push away the tangled morass in his gut.

“Considering puberty forgot about the rest of you, I guess so,” Jonny chirps.

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says easily, shoving his hips up to chase friction. “Like you’re not into the whole package.”

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Jonny says, tongue sliding out to wet his lips in a deliberate circle before he ducks down and slides them over the head of Patrick’s dick.

Patrick drops back into the pillows and pushes a hand into Jonny’s hair, eyes falling shut as Jonny sucks him, working Patrick’s wide cock incrementally deeper into his mouth, lips stretched tight around the shaft. When Patrick presses him down, urgent but not hard enough Jonny couldn’t stay where he was if he wanted to, Jonny moves with it, swallowing tightly against the head of Patrick’s cock as it presses in deep. Patrick whines, hips twitching up. Jonny’s fingers slide across Patrick’s sac where it’s pushed up between his tight thighs, pressing down gently.

Patrick throws his free hand up behind his head to grip at the headboard, thighs trembling and stomach jumping as Jonny works Patrick’s dick into his throat. Jonny’s small sounds vibrate against the swollen head, making Patrick cry out and twist his fingers tight into Jonny’s hair. Jonny pulls back to breathe heavily for a moment, tongue sliding along the shaft, before he presses down again. It’s the rough, wrecked sound Jonny makes when he takes Patrick in so deep his nose grazes Patrick’s skin more than the pressure or the sight or the slick warmth of Jonny’s mouth around him that breaks Patrick apart and has him coming hot and hard down Jonny’s throat.

“Hooooly shit,” Patrick says, after Jonny’s swallowed and carefully pulled off and slid over next to Patrick, hot and close because the beds aren’t much wider than the two of them. “Holy. Shit.”

Jonny laughs and rasps, “Glad you liked.”

Jesus, his voice is so rough and fucked up that Patrick’s toes curl. “God, man, you better not talk for the rest of the day. And maybe tomorrow.”

Jonny presses his forehead to Patrick’s shoulder and then sits up, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders back. “Whatever, I’m out. Don’t care,” he says hoarsely.

“I guess,” Patrick says, because it’s one thing for your teammates to know you’re into sucking dick, and something entirely different for them to hear it in every word. But maybe Jonny thinks about it less, if he was already okay with the idea of being out, has been for years. Maybe that’s just Patrick’s hang-up.

Jonny’s stomach grumbles loudly as he reaches for his clothes, and Patrick cracks a grin. “You should go eat, you must be starving.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, getting dressed quickly. “You wanna come?” he asks, but Patrick can see that it’s reluctant. Which is fair, Patrick figures. If he’s gonna show up with a voice like sandpaper, Jonny probably doesn’t want Patrick standing next to him like a freaking beacon of ‘guess whose dick I just sucked’.

“Nah, ate lunch late,” Patrick says dismissively. “I’ll go back to my team, see you later.”

“Sure,” Jonny says, shoving on his shoes and then pausing by the bed. He reaches out and clasps Patrick’s bare shoulder. “We good?”

“Course,” Patrick says. It’s not true, not yet. Patrick’s not sure if he’s going to be able to figure out how to get over Jonny if _this_ keeps happening, but there’s always the off-season. Letting go, completely, for good—if Jonny’s not gonna do it, Patrick can’t fathom saying no. “Always,” he adds, and Jonny’s fingers tighten before letting go.

“Awesome. Good game tomorrow, Kaner,” Jonny says.

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a sigh as the door slams shut. He leans over to snag his shirt and boxers off the floor, and starts getting dressed.

~

The round robin goes fine, at least for Patrick. The team does amazingly, even if Patrick’s not producing as much as he’d like. The blowouts are fun, but not enough to really get Patrick jumping. Jonny grumbles sometimes about how Patrick seems to turn it on best when he’s needed, and while Patrick objects to the idea that he ever plays less than his best, even he can’t deny there’s some truth to it. His game just flows better when everything’s on the line, and the games against Slovenia and Slovakia just aren’t that desperate, especially as distracted as he’s been of late.

The game against Russia in between, on the other hand, is everything Patrick loves about hockey, up to and including silencing the raucous home crowd. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing Patrick loves more than proving everybody wrong, and if he’s doing it himself or as part of the team, it doesn’t matter. He might not get to deal the blow himself, but watching Oshie do it, the bench rising to their feet as one unit, holding their breath until it’s through, is a thrilling reminder of how good it is to win as a team. Even Kesler breaks into a grin and throws an arm around Patrick’s shoulder, shouting something about victory into his ear at the end of it.

It’s enough to keep Patrick pumped up through the game against Slovenia, but when that’s done, in the upbeat roar of the dressing room, the conversation turns to sex and getting some with the female athletes in Sochi.

“I mean, I prefer a little bit of body fat on a lady, right?” says Shatty, demonstrating with his hands. “But dude, these girls do not quit.”

“Oh god,” sighs Cam, tipping his head back in his stall. “I got a beej from this chick from Norway. I swear to god I almost passed out two minutes in, it was so good.”

“Jesus, kid,” says Martin, sitting next to him and looking mildly disgusted. “Get some stamina or something.”

“I’m just saying,” Shatty goes on, “the usual chicks I meet, you know, they work out and shit, but it’s girly stuff, you know? These babes are built, and I’m thinking that’s not such a bad thing.”

“To fuck, I guess,” Oprik tosses in, sounding skeptical. “But dude, I wouldn’t marry one of these women. Way too intense about their thing.”

“Yeah, cause you give zero shits about your job,” Miller calls from his stall.

The guys degenerate into chirping while Patrick finishes stripping and heads to the showers, towel tied tight around his hips, but he’s only halfway across the room when JVR calls out his name and says, “Hey Kaner, what about you?”

Patrick stops, and glances over at him warily. “What about me?”

“You picking up some of those figure skaters or some shit?” he asks with a grin, and Patrick feels his ears go red as the guys look at him. “C’mon, you like the cut look or not? You into athletes?”

“I fucking hope he isn’t!” Shatty says loudly, grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his shoulders like a cape.

“Kev—” starts Oshie, but Stepan cuts him off with a yelp.

“C’mon, Kane. You gotta warn us if this does it for you,” he says, gesturing down his naked torso with a smirk.

“As if,” Patrick says, finally finding his voice and thanking god it comes out dry instead of shaking. He can’t do anything about the hot flush of embarrassment, though, feeling his cheeks go red. “You’re all fucking nasty.”

“Ouch, man,” says JVR sadly. “And here I thought we had something special.”

“Maybe you should let him rub off on you so you’d be less of a god damned pigeon,” chirps Patches. “Suck some of his mojo out of him.”

“Fuck you, _Max_ ,” JVR sneers, and Patrick takes that as his cue to escape to the showers, beating everybody but Kesler and Cally. When Oshie comes in after him, he shoots Patrick a contemplative look, but Patrick turns away and sticks his head under the spray before he can say anything.

~

Patrick joins a bunch of the guys to watch Canada’s game against Finland, that evening, and afterwards finds himself waiting in the hallway outside the lockers, telling his team he’ll catch up with them later for celebratory drinks. It takes a while, lingering in the dim hallway, but eventually Duncs comes out with Weber, the quiet hum of the locker room spilling out as the door opens and then shuts behind them.

“Hey Kaner,” Duncs says when he spots him, glancing around like he’s checking to see if Patrick’s alone. “Sup?”

“Not much,” Patrick says, nodding at Weber. “Good game.”

“Rask made it hard,” Weber says with a shrug.

“He always does. Finnish goalies, eh?” Patrick says, smiling. “Hey, is Jonny still in there?”

“Yeah,” Duncs says. “You want me to go get him?”

“Nah, I’ll wait,” Patrick says. “Thanks man.”

“See ya,” Duncs says, laconic as ever as he nods and they take off down the hallway.

When Jonny comes out, he’s surrounded by Tavares and Crosby and Duchene, going over what sounds like a failed powerplay in his determined tones, and the four of them almost pass right by Kaner, leaning back in an alcove, before Duchene notices him.

“Oh shit, guys, American spy alert,” he says, turning on his heel and grinning at Patrick. “Shut up about the powerplay.”

“Pretty sure I’ve heard everything Jonny’s got to say on the powerplay,” Patrick says drily, pushing off the wall and tucking his phone away. “Trust me, it’s not that useful.”

“Fuck you,” Jonny says easily. “What’re you doing here?”

“What, I can’t just say congrats?” Patrick asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Jonny raises his eyebrows in return, and claps Tavares on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Go on, I’ll meet you at the caf.”

Crosby gives Patrick a stink-eye, but the three of them leave, and after a moment Patrick turns and starts walking after them slowly, Jonny falling in beside him.

“You okay?” Jonny asks when they push open the heavy doors to the exit of the arena, nodding at the security guard as they pass.

“Sure,” Patrick says.

“You’re not actually here to say congrats,” Jonny points out. “Something wrong?”

“Just homesick, I think,” Patrick admits, digging his beanie out of his pocket and shoving it on. The city’s pretty warm in the daytime sun, but it’s past eleven and the nighttime chill is well set-in.

“Oh.”

Patrick makes a face and whacks Jonny on the arm lightly. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Jonny protests, punching him back about five times harder. “You’re being weird, Jesus.”

“I’m—” Okay, maybe he is. Patrick groans and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes before tucking them back into his pockets. “I guess I didn’t realize how lucky I got, coming out on the Hawks.”

“Whaddya mean?” Jonny asks.

“I mean, I dunno. We know each other, right? It’s my team, it’s _home_. Maybe it was weird for some of the guys, me coming out, but most of them knew me and didn’t, I dunno. Freak out about it. Except you, I guess,” he adds, with a half-smile. “But we cleared that up fast, because we at least could talk about it. I mean, I felt like I could talk about it, with you. Even before.” He winces a little at his rambling, turning his head to look away from Jonny.

Jonny stops, putting his hand on Patrick’s elbow and bringing him to a halt, making him turn back. “Are you saying your guys are freaking out about it? Because you should talk to Bylsma, or even Burke, if—”

Patrick snorts. “Yeah, no. And it’s not… there’s nothing wrong, it’s just. It’s the same sort of shit our guys said in the fall, right? It’s just different when they’re not _my_ guys, I guess. I don’t know what to say back.”

Jonny looks down at him, and Patrick can’t quite make out his expression in the yellow light of the street lamps. “I got some shit, too,” he offers after a minute.

“Yeah?” Patrick asks skeptically. “Your golden boy Captain let that fly?”

“Not in the room,” Jonny says, biting his lip. “Just, you know.”

Jonny doesn’t finish his sentence, but yeah, Patrick does, and that’s the point. He sags a little under Jonny’s grip, reaching up to squeeze his wrist and then push him away to they continue their slow pace to the caf, neither of them in a rush to get there. When they come upon the long, low building, Patrick tilts his head in the direction of the American dorms.

“I’m gonna go sleep,” he says. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jonny says, and shit, Patrick wants to kiss him. He bites down on his lip instead.

“Whatever,” Patrick manages, forcing a smile. “See you in the semis, I guess.”

“Yeah, if we both get through,” Jonny says, frowning like the odds aren’t stacked heavily in their favours. “Shitty it can’t be the finals.”

“You’ll just have to settle for bronze,” Patrick says with a sigh, shaking his head mournfully.

“I’d say good luck but, oh wait,” Jonny says sarcastically. “No.”

“Dick,” Patrick says, smiling for real as he punches Jonny in the shoulder. “See you around, man.”

Jonny catches his bare wrist, fingers sliding up under the cuff of Patrick’s jacket. Patrick stills, his own fingers spreading out across Jonny’s coat, catching at a seam as he curls them back in. There’s a moment where they’re just watching each other, Jonny’s mouth parted like he’s halfway to saying something, and Patrick feels desperate to hear it, but somebody down the street yells out in another language and they both flinch, letting go and stepping apart.

“Play hard,” Jonny says roughly, before turning away and heading into the caf.

Patrick nods at the empty air and turns to head back to his dorm.

~

The next day Patrick catches some of the morning events with his mom and sister before crashing after lunch in his room. He’s texting with Jackie when Oshie shows up, knocking and then letting himself in.

" ‘Sup man," Patrick says, leaning back against the headboard.

"Dude," Oshie says, flopping dramatically on Cally’s bed. "I haven’t ever signed this many autographs in my life, and I’ve signed a lot of autographs before."

Patrick laughs. “What? They know what hockey is in St. Louis?”

"Fuck you," Oshie says good-naturedly. "I don’t mind signing shit, but it’s like, they’re _everywhere_ , man. It’s the other athletes, you can’t get away from them. I feel like I’m getting paranoid and looking over my shoulder for sharpies now.”

"Good thing you came here, because I’m completely unimpressed with you," Patrick chirps.

Oshie just throws an arm over his head and grins at him. “Nah, I heard this was the boring room.”

"Hey," Patrick says, except Oshie’s kind of right. He’s been… less than upbeat, this last week, and Cally’s pretty serious. And wrapped up in contract negotiations—Patrick knows way more about the Rangers’ lawyers than he feels is quite necessary.

"S’okay, bro," Oshie says, yawning and looking like he’s about to settle in for a nap, which, whatever. They both know the value of a good nap, and Patrick can leave it to Cally to kick Oshie out when he wants his bed back. "It’s gotta be rough, losing your granddad right before this whole dealio."

"Yeah," Patrick admits, tossing his phone on the bedside table and sliding down his bed himself. "It’s been, yeah. Surreal already, with the whole Olympic thing, but that’s just…" he shrugs, not quite sure why he’s saying this to Oshie, of all people. "It’s been a weird season, let’s just say that."

"No shit," Oshie says. "I heard about the whole fuck-up with Jonny," he adds, and Patrick almost swallows his tongue.

"You what?" he says, sitting up on the bed.

Oshie looks over at him, an amused smile on his face. “Who do you think he called up in a panic after he ballsed it up with you?”

"Uh…" Patrick says, blindsided. "He, uh. What did he say?"

"Oh, you know," Oshie says with a shrug. "Just how he was an idiot for like, thinking it was a good idea not to come out to you right away."

"He— _oh_ ,” Patrick says. “Oh, you mean back in the fall.”

"Right," Oshie says, frowning. "What did you think I meant?"

"No—nothing, I was just confused," Patrick says hastily, leaning back into his nest of pillows. "So you knew about, his, uh, being bi."

"Oh yeah," Oshie says, rolling his eyes. "Since freshman year. We shared a, like, student apartment on campus, and I came back from a weekend at home to see him getting his dick sucked on the couch by a dude."

"Oh, god," Patrick says, picturing Jonny’s reaction and grinning. "What did he _do_?”

"I didn’t even give him a chance to do anything," Oshie says. "Just yelled at him to not make a mess and shut myself in my room for twenty minutes."

"Nice," Patrick says, and Oshie looks over with a grin.

"Bro, there’s a like a code. Do not interrupt blow-jobs-in-progress." His grin softens a little, and he gives Patrick a little shrug, watching him across the space between the beds. "I never cared, you know? Didn’t then, don’t now."

"Thanks," Patrick says awkwardly, but Oshie just scoffs and waves a hand off the edge of the bed.

"For fucks sake, Kaner, don’t thank me for being a decent human being."

"Well, okay, I take it back," Patrick says, rolling his eyes. "Tell me about teenage Jonny’s conquests, then, instead."

"Oh shit, dude," Oshie says, laughing. "He had so many, too, in freshman year. Like, he’d been getting a ton of chicks—not that it was hard at UND, being on the team. I’m not saying I had any challenges in that area," Patrick scoffs, and Oshie gives him a half-hearted glare, "but once I realized Jonny was playing both ends, well." He shrugs. "Let’s just say he was a fucking lucky seventeen year-old."

"He’s always been a solid two-way player," Patrick says, straight-faced.

Oshie groans and covers his face with one hand. “You did not. Just. Say that.”

"Sure did," Patrick snaps with a grin. "What happened in sophomore year?"

"Oh," Oshie says, laughter dropping away as he makes a face at Patrick. "Ethan."

"You mean—just him?" Patrick asks.

"Ugh," Oshie says, frowning deeply. "Yeah, I think. For Jonny, anyway."

"Jonny mentioned him," Patrick says, curious. "But he just said he was like, a fuckbuddy."

"He _would_ say that,” Oshie says darkly. “No man, Ethan was Jonny’s boyfriend, for like, most of the year.”

"Huh?" Patrick says stupidly. "Why would—why would he lie about that?"

"Oh hell," Oshie says, pushing up against the headboard. "He—look. He tells _me_ that’s what it was, now, okay? Even though I was _there_ and know he’s full of shit. It’s just what happened—he’s not like, lying to you. Just kind of… revising how that shit went down.”

“What went down?” Patrick asks, sitting up leaning his elbows on his knees.

Oshie’s mouth twists, and then he sighs and curls up, scooting up the bed to lean against the headboard. “I’m not saying we talked about it a lot or anything, but Ethan was a messed up motherfucker, okay? He didn’t pay any attention to the rookies on the Sioux, but when Jonny came back after being drafted, all of a sudden he was all over him, and Jonny was just… into him? He wasn’t ugly, I guess, and charming like a sociopath.”

“So they went out?” Patrick prods. “Exclusive or whatever?”

“I dunno what Ethan said,” TJ says, pushing his hair out of his face. “But Jonny stopped hooking up with anybody else, and they’d fuck and hang out and shit, but then we’d be out at a bar and Ethan would ignore Jonny, like, some cold shutdown every time Jonny tried to talk to him, and then go pick up some other dude.”

“Woah,” Patrick says with a frown. “He cheated on him?”

Oshie raises a shoulder and drops his head back. “Sure looked like it. I mean, I asked, but Jonny said it was okay, except… you know, it really wasn’t. Ethan would be an asshole, and Jonny would be miserable for days, and then Ethan would show up and be all _sweet_ and shit and Jonny would be happy again.”

“Fuck,” Patrick says, feeling abruptly nauseous.

“Yeah,” Oshie says. He shudders, scrubbing a hand across his face. “It was a fucked-up year, man. Add in the concussions, _again_ , and let me tell you, I spent more time worrying about JT than playing games.”

“Yeah…” Patrick says, distracted. “I—shit, it’s hard to imagine Jonny, I dunno, letting that happen. He doesn’t take shit like that anymore.”

“No?” Oshie says skeptically. “I mean, JT’s a determined motherfucker about a lot of things, but asking for what he needs? Instead of what the team needs, or whatever?” He shakes his head. “Yeah, not so much.”

“I guess,” Patrick says, voice hoarse.

“Case in point,” Oshie says, spreading his hands wide. “As far as I know, once Ethan straight-up dumped him— _that_ I heard about, it was some cold-ass shit, you wouldn’t _believe_ how drunk I had to get JT to find out how that happened—at the end of the season, he’s never even picked up another dude. Burned him hard, bro. I was shocked when he came out, figured he was done with that for good.”

“You don’t…” Patrick starts, wetting his lips as his mind races. “Maybe it was better that way? It’s not like he can’t date girls.”

Oshie gives him a wide-eyed look. “For real, man? Maybe he’s into chicks too, but he’s still like, cutting off half of himself because he got hurt. You gotta work through that shit, not just pretend it never happened.”

“He did come out,” Patrick points out. “So he’s not hiding it anymore.”

“Yeah, and when I was all _congrats for finally getting over your douchebag ex_ last week, he was all _it wasn’t for me_ and the usual bullshit denial,” Oshie says, rolling his eyes and then going on more seriously. “Look, I didn’t tell you all that to be a gossip. I’m telling you because maybe you can help him get over it for real. Show him there are decent gay guys out there who won’t break his heart. Find a few solid dudes of your own, and maybe Jonny will stop thinking every guy’s just gonna fuck and run, you know?”

Patrick’s fingers dig into his knees as he pulls up his legs to his chest. “Right,” he croaks. “That—yeah.”

Oshie flashes him a wide grin and pops off the bed. “Cool man. I know you’re like, super important to him, so take care of him, okay?”

Patrick nods. “Course.”

“Awesome,” Oshie says, punching him on the shoulder and making for the door, leaving Patrick stunned and speechless on his bed. When the door shuts, he sinks back into his pillows and stares up at the ceiling.

What. The. Fuck.

~

He can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. The freestyle skiing he watches with Jess is awesome, but he’s zoning out all the way through the evening. Patrick keeps playing Oshie’s words back through his head, lining them up with everything Jonny’s told him—or hasn’t told him—since Patrick came out. The space between what Jonny _said_ and what he must have meant, or what was the truth is, is driving him nuts. Patrick can’t figure out if Jonny was straight-up lying for god knows what reason, or if he really was as messed up as Oshie said and just… didn’t think it was important information.

“Pat. Pat. _Patrick.”_

Patrick gets an elbow in the ribs from Jess, hard enough that his “ow, fuck!” is legitimate. “What the hell?”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Am I that boring? Or are you just not into this?” She gestures at their view of the hill in front of them, where several skiers are flying down at top speed. Patrick’s never been skiing, not once. Like most professional hockey players, he doesn’t want to risk breaking something, not when his wrists and knees are worth several million a year. “We could always go find some curling.”

“God, no,” he says with a shudder. “Sorry, no, this is awesome, you’re great, I’m just thinking too much.”

“Brave new world,” Jess says drily, and he shoulders her gently with a grin. “Wanna talk about it?” she asks.

“Not really,” says Patrick. “I mean, I do, but there’s probably a specific person I need to talk about it _with_.”

“Jonny?”

Patrick shoots her a surprised look, and she raises her eyebrows at him. “Seriously, Patty? You looked like you’d seen a ghost, watching him come out. And you said you weren’t _surprised_ , which means something else is going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Patrick protests, but it’s halfhearted. Jess sighs and glances around before grabbing him by the elbow. She tugs him out of the crowd at the foot of the hill, and they start walking towards the nearby lodge.

“You can tell me, you know,” she says, looping her arm all the way around his elbow. “I’m not Jacks, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even mom?” Patrick asks skeptically.

“Uh, you’re the momma’s boy,” Jess says, rolling her eyes. “And the daddy’s boy. The rest of us could do laundry before we were twenty, at least.”

“I was busy!” Patrick protests. It’s an old argument that they have for fun these days. He and Jess have mostly made their peace. They hit the doors to the lodge and head inside. There’s a large, open café on the main floor, with big windows facing the ski hill. “You want a drink? Hot chocolate?”

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll grab a table.”

“In the back, where it’s quiet,” he says, and Jess smiles at him. “I’m not saying I’m gonna _say_ anything,” Patrick adds warningly.

“Yeah yeah, go get me my drink,” she says, letting go and waving a hand at him. “Extra whipped cream, and a shot of whiskey if they have it.”

“ _No_ ,” Patrick says, but she just laughs and shoves him towards the counter.

When he finds her, with two hot chocolates, one with extra whipped cream and the other with a generous sprinkle of nutmeg, she’s got her arms crossed and a determined expression on her face. He winces, setting down the drinks, and tries to head her off before he’s even sat down. “Look, this is something I have to work out by myself, okay?”

“Uhuh,” she says, unimpressed. “You’re sleeping together, right?”

“ _Jess_ ,” Patrick hisses, glancing around. “Shut _up_.”

“Oh, come on,” she says. “Stop being chicken, nobody’s listening.” She tugs out a chair beside her, nodding at it pointedly. It’s a small, round table by the wall, and this way they can both look out at the rest of the room. Most everyone else is crowded up by the windows, watching the freestyle ski event they abandoned in favour of Patrick’s relationship problems. Not that Jess _knows_ they’re relationship problems, but, well. She might have guessed.

Patrick frowns, because that—he doesn’t like that, the idea that even his own sister is assuming he and Jonny are fucking. Like it’s inevitable, or something. “People can’t assume that. Just because we’re both into men doesn’t mean—”

“—oh come on, Patty,” she interrupts, impatient. “For one, of _course_ everybody’s gonna think you’re together because of that, what world do you live in? For two, I think you’re sleeping together because you looked like you’d seen a ghost when he came out, and then I overheard you telling dad you’d done it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” she says flatly. “The walls aren’t that thick at home.”

“Right,” Patrick says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Does everyone think so? I mean, in our family?”

Jess shrugs. “I didn’t say anything, but dad might have told mom, and mom would have told Erica, so it’s probably gotten around. Maybe not to Jacks.” She takes a delicate sip of her hot chocolate and frowns at him. “Do you actually care if we know?”

“I…” Patrick starts, but he trails off when he realizes he’s not sure if he does care. He leans back in his chair, tugging off his toque and twisting it between his hands as he considers it. “I don’t know,” he says finally, glancing sideways at Jess’s frank gaze.

“I thought you came out so you didn’t have to hide a relationship,” she says, an edge to her voice that Patrick doesn’t like. His mouth twists into a frown as he looks out at the room.

“It’s _not_ a relationship,” Patrick says. “It’s—look,” he says, feeling frustrated. “If we were dating then I’d have told you guys, but we’re _not_ , it’s just sex. And that’s….” He tugs at his lip with his teeth, fingers dug deep in the soft wool of his hat. “It’s private, okay? He wasn’t even _out_ until last week.”

“So you were okay with hiding for him?” Jess asks sharply. “After all that shit about needing to come out so you could be honest with yourself, with _everyone_?”

“Jesus, it wasn’t _like_ that,” Patrick says, frustrated. He and Jess—they’ve always talked past each other, and even now he never feels like he knows how to say what she’s looking to hear. “We weren’t gonna announce to our friends and family that we were fucking, come _on_.”

“If it’s just fucking,” she says, putting her mug down with a sharp clack, “why are you mooning around Russia like a twelve-year-old girl? _You_ come on, god.”

“Jess,” he starts, but she tosses her hair over her shoulder and leans in.

“Look, I don’t care what it _was_ ,” she says, gripping his shoulder. “But it’s obviously messing you up now, and I don’t buy it’s just fucking around for a second. You went through all this because you _don’t_ like casual shit, okay? You’re _loyal_ , Patty, and if he’s being a dick about it then he’s not worth your time.”

“Except maybe _I_ was being a dick about it too,” he bursts out, too loud for the small distance between them, and she sits back with a wince. “Sorry,” he adds, quieter. He reaches out for his mug and takes a slow drink of it. “Sorry, I just… it’s weird, right now. I don’t even know if we’re still gonna, you know, or if it’s done, and even if it isn’t I don’t think I can keep doing it.”

“Without actually dating, you mean,” Jess adds, settling back into her char.

“I don’t know how we’d do _that_ , either,” Patrick admits. He rubs a hand over his mouth and then takes another sip, cupping his mug with both hands. “He doesn’t want to, he’s clear enough about _that_. And it turns out he’s got good reasons to. Well,” he amends. “Reasons. Shitty ones, actually, but I dunno if I can do anything about them.”

“He thinks it won’t work?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “They’re not about us. Just—past stuff, I guess.” He gives her a half-smile, one corner of his mouth twisted up. “Even Jonathan Toews has a douchebag ex-boyfriend, apparently.”

“Oh,” she says with a frown. “So? That doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

Patrick bites down on his lip and leans over the table. “Yeah, I guess not,” he says unconvincingly, staring down at his drink. Jess makes a small harumph of a noise, but shuts up for now, drinking her hot chocolate in silence while Patrick watches the clumps of nutmeg float across the surface of his own.

~

Except it has everything to do with Patrick, at the very _least_ because Patrick’s sure half the reason everything’s so confused between them is because of this thing with Ethan. At most—shit. Patrick can’t even think about it, about all the times something he now thinks what might have been _hurt_ flashed across Jonny’s face when they were together. Because of something Patrick said, or did, or made Jonny think—Jesus, Patrick doesn’t even know. He feels sick with guilt, but also there’s a deep, self-righteous anger at Jonny bubbling underneath, because Jonny never _said_ , and he kept letting Patrick fuck him and offering more and that’s _not Patrick’s fault._

And god damnit, Patrick’s been hurting too, every time Jonny’s pushed him away. The more Patrick thinks about it, the more he’s sure Jonny feels it too, this pulse of something bigger underneath his skin, pulling them together again and again despite everything that says it’s stupid and risky and could fuck everything up. Except he kept brushing Patrick off, dismissing the possibility of anything before they’re anywhere at all.

It’s too distracting to ignore, and Patrick finds himself outside the Team Canada dorms after team practice, the day of the qualifying games. Canada’s practice was before theirs, he knows that much, but Jonny could be anywhere, and security won’t let him in, even as an athlete. He’s texted Sharpy, and has the opening “hey” written to send to Jonny, when Carter and Doughty come out the front doors.

“Hey Kane,” Carter says, coming over to him. “You looking for your guys?”

“You mean, is he looking for _Toews_ ,” Doughty says, sly.

Carter grins, sharp, and looks down at Patrick. “He’s out. More fucking curling, I think.”

 “You’ll have to suck his dick some other time,” Doughty adds. Patrick freezes, face going hot, and Doughty’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit. For real?”

“Drew,” Carter starts, lackadaisical grin falling a little, but Doughty just elbows him in the ribs and keeps talking, taking Patrick’s stunned silence for the confirmation it is.

“No way, I mean—everybody _said_ you were obviously fucking, but I didn’t think it was _true_.” He sounds delighted, and Patrick’s tense and furious and the words to refute it are stuck deep in his throat. “Dude, this is some star-crossed shit.”

“It’s none of your business,” Patrick finally says. God, if Doughty had said anything but the truth, Patrick would have been able to laugh it off. He’s good at letting chirping roll of his back, but this isn’t chirping, this is _real_ , and he can’t figure out how to lie about it. “Look—just forget it.”

“We can let you in to wait,” Doughty says, nodding his head back to the residence. “One last fuck before you’re torn apart by the cruelty of national loyalties, eh?”

“Yeah, no,” Patrick says abruptly, turning and walking away. Carter says his name, but he’s drowned out by Doughty yelling after him.

“Don’t forget to win the quarters so we can crush you!”

~

He doesn’t try to find Jonny again. Even if he could stomach the idea of running into Doughty—or hell, the rest of their team who probably have heard all about it, by now—there isn’t really time, and Patrick is hardly going to look for Jonny tomorrow when they actually have to play each other. His team watches the battle of the former Czechoslovakia that evening, and he figures Jonny’s with the Canadians watching Switzerland and Latvia. It’s brutal seeing Slovakia go down four-zero before Hoss puts them on the board, twice, but by then it’s too little, too late. Patrick spends most of the game watching the Czech D, trying to pick out gaps and figure out who likes to jump up a little too early.

“Czech Republic all riiiight,” Oshie drawls as they spill out of the stadium into the streets, shouldering into Patrick. “I for one am glad not to be seeing the ‘long reach of Zdeno Chara’ tomorrow night,” he adds, putting on an overdrawn announcer voice.

“Don’t get too cocky,” Backes says, frowning at Oshie. “The Czechs looked good.”

“They don’t have the goaltending, though,” Patrick says thoughtfully. “If we get the puck to the net we’ll get some in.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Oshie says with a grin. “And hey, maybe Latvia will take care of Canada for us.”

“Okay, _now_ you’re just getting stupid,” says Patrick.

~

Patrick’s right about the Czech, and it only takes them twenty-five shots to get five goals, but man does he wish they’d been playing at a different time. The Latvia-Canada game sounded like an absolute shitshow.

“ _Fifty-seven_?” JVR repeats, mouth dropping open. “Wait, for real?”

“Yup,” says Bylsma, at t he head of the room. “Latvia had all of sixteen, but Ted pulled off a bench breakaway in the first. But the point is, stop listening to the hype that Canada can’t score. Fifty-seven shots and two goals isn’t ‘not scoring’, it’s a goalie playing out of his god-damned mind. So unless we want to owe ours our collective yearly salaries, keep it locked down tomorrow, got it?”

There’s a murmur of assent, and Bylsma nods and disappears into the back rooms so the rest of them can change.

“Fifty-seven,” JVR repeats beside Patrick. “Fuck.”

“Yeah well,” Patrick says, shrugging out of his pads. “We’re not Latvia, pretty sure our boys will keep it under fifty.” JVR laughs and Patrick grins. “Just open it up again tomorrow, okay?” he adds.

“Yeah, sure,” JVR says. “We got this.”

~

Turns out, not a single one of them can open up the scoring the next night. It’s an open game, really, or at least it would count as one in the NHL, but Price shuts the door and Quick keeps them believing until the last second. It’s crushing, and deja vu, and the atmosphere in the room is shit compared to the loss four years ago. At least they got to the finals, then. At least they got on the _board_.

Patrick gives a post-game while he’s still reeling from the loss. It’s a stupid set-up, and he’s got to focus on the reporter’s questions while the victorious team stomps along behind him, fantastic. When a hand claps down around his shoulder, he knows who it is even before he turns to look. It _sucks_ , being used to leaning into Jonny’s touch when they’ve lost something this big, but this time it’s just him losing alone, all over again. He wants to reach out and grab on and take whatever Jonny will give, and demand more of it—it’s all a mess in his chest, and he almost misses the reporter’s question about going for bronze.

He laughs, caught off-guard, and pushes everything away to pull up his years of media training. “I don’t think anyone was thinking about a bronze medal, so, uh, it might be a tough game to get up for, but at the same time we’ve gotta realize that going home with something is better than nothing, so hopefully we can take it home.” Sharpy’s fist falls against his shoulder as he finishes, but he doesn’t look back as Patrick escapes the reporter and heads to his own dressing room.

Back in the room, Patrick sits heavily in his stall and drags his hands through his hair, jersey laid out in the laundry bin but pads and skates still on. Bylsma’s saying something he’s not listening to at the front of the room. _Nobody’s_ listening to whatever’s being said about Finland—who gives a fuck about Finland? His answer on camera aside, Patrick’s not sure he can bring himself to believe bronze is better than nothing. Patrick Kane doesn’t half-ass things, and he _always_ plays to win, but the idea of fighting for bronze feels like they’ve already lost.

“Hey, Kane,” he hears, and looks up to see Kesler glaring down at him.

“What do you want?” he says tiredly. He and Kesler have managed to keep the animosity level down between them, this time round, but only by keeping conversation to the barest, workmanlike minimum necessary for linemates.

“I want you to get your head in the game,” he says, low and harsh. “Only, three fucking periods ago.”

“What the hell?” Patrick says, straightening up. His game had been—fine, not stellar, but _nobody_ had scored, and he can only carry so much of the blame. “Last I checked, you weren’t giving us much either, asshole.”

“Yeah?” Kesler says, mouth twisting. “At least I’m not distracted panting over my _boyfriend_. You wanna play on his team, get the fuck off ours.”

The room goes silent in the space of a breath. Patrick stands up. Kesler’s kept his skates on too, and Patrick has to tilt his head back to get in his face. “Say that again,” he says softly, hands curling into fists by his sides.

“You heard me,” Kesler growls, and then turns heel and walks back to his stall, the clump of his skates on the rubber floor the only sound in the frozen room.

Patrick breathes out, forcing his hands open at his sides, and then turns to take off his gear. The roaring in his ears dies down as slowly as the volume in the room comes back up.

~

Patrick feels weirdly even-keel the next morning. If it had just been the loss, he’d probably still be upset, but after the shitshow with Kesler, this calm sense of defiance overrides everything as he heads out with half the team for breakfast at the caf. Everyone’s a little too careful and friendly with him, but nobody straight-up says anything, not until Kesler himself shows up.

“Kane,” Kesler says, standing in front of the seat Brownie just vacated, across from Patrick. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Patrick swallows a mouthful of eggs and gestures with his fork. “Be my guest,” he says tonelessly, feeling the tension rise as the buzz of conversation fades around them.

“Thanks,” Kesler says shortly, putting down his tray and taking a seat. He doesn’t touch his food, just says straight out, “I owe you an apology.”

“You think?” Patrick says, unable to avoid the sarcastic twist to his words.

Kesler doesn’t flinch, just flattens his mouth and goes on. “Yeah. I was angry, and I _hate_ losing, but I shouldn’t have been a dick.”

“Alright,” Patrick says, shrugging and going back to his eggs.

“Uh—” Kesler says, sounding surprised. “Alright? Are we good then?”

Patrick sighs and puts down his fork. “No, we’re not good, what the hell?” he says, keeping his voice steady as Kesler flinches. “You cut me down after a game, in front of the team, because you _hate losing_? If you just aren’t comfortable with me in the room, whatever, I can deal, but you don’t get to call my commitment to this team into question. You want to apologize, I’ll accept it, but that wasn’t a fucking apology.”

Kesler blows out a breath. “It’s not about that. I have no problem with you being in the room, I swear. But I shouldn’t have—you’re right. It doesn’t excuse it, and I’m sorry. Honest to god,” he goes on intently, leaning forward. “Kaner, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. My wife is gonna have my balls when she hears about it, and I’ll deserve it.”

“Yeah, you would,” Patrick says, unimpressed.

“Yep. And honestly, pretty much every guy in the room tore me a new one, last night,” Kesler says, gesturing down the table. “The only person who I succeeded in cutting down last night was _me_.”

“Good,” Patrick says shortly, but he manages a sharp nod of acceptance. “We’re good, then.”

“Okay,” Kesler says. He holds Patrick’s gaze for a moment before nodding back.

“This is better than high school,” Oshie mutters beside him, low enough that it’s just for Patrick. Patrick shoots him a warning look and goes back to his breakfast. He finishes fast, but lets himself linger over his coffee until the table’s clearing out. When Kesler goes to stand, Patrick holds out a hand and says, “Hang on.”

“Yeah?” Kesler says, uncertain.

Patrick nods, and Kesler settles back into his chair, waiting with Patrick while the rest of the team leaves, a little more deliberately than before. Except for Oshie, who’s sprawled low in his chair next to Patrick, sipping at his own mug of coffee and giving every impression he’s entirely uninterested in the two remaining hockey players at the table.

“Osh,” Patrick says pointedly. “If you don’t mind?”

“Nah, bro,” Oshie says with a wide grin. “I’m good here. Just ignore me.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, but whatever. If Oshie wants to play white knight out of some friend-of-my-friend type loyalty, well. He knows more than most to begin with; Patrick can deal with him listening to the rest.

“Do you want me to,” Kesler starts. “I thought it would be better in front of everyone, right?”

“Once was enough,” Patrick says with a smirk. He does appreciate Kesler’s willingness to apologize in public, in theory. At some point he might actually feel it, too. “I don’t want you to break anything. No, I wanted to ask where you got the idea that Jonny’s my boyfriend.”

“Uh,” stutters Kesler, glancing from Patrick to Oshie and back to Patrick again. “It’s, well….”

“Is it just—I’m gay, he’s bi, we’re on the same team so do the math type shit?” Patrick asks, leaning forward to keep his voice down.

Kesler shakes his head slowly. “No. It _was_ that, back at the start of the tournament, but the last couple days… nobody told you?” Patrick raises his eyebrows, skeptical, and Kesler nods. “Yeah, I guess nobody would. People started saying it was true, that you’d said as much.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck _Doughty_ , and Carter, and all of Team Fucking Canada.

Oshie laughs, startling Patrick. He sits forward, slinging an arm around Patrick’s neck. “Dude, that’s bull. C’mon, Kes, somebody’s just trying to stir up shit. And trust me, I know better than anyone except these two assholes.” He jostles Patrick roughly. “They aren’t fucking, they’re just _friends_. Not that you’d know what that looks like, you douchebag.”

Kesler rolls his eyes but takes his lumps without comment. “Well, I don’t care either way. But the rumour mill’s going pretty hard, and for the last couple of days it’s been different, so. You might want to head that off.”

“Right,” says Patrick with a sigh. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Kesler says darkly. “I was an asshole.”

“You’re always an asshole,” Patrick says. “Nothing new there.”

“Sure,” Kesler admits, shrugging. “But I usually try to be an asshole that makes my team better, not worse.”

“You fixed it,” Patrick says. “Move on. I already have.”

“Yeah,” Kesler says, firm gaze on Patrick as he stands up. “You’re—I respect what you’re doing here. I know my opinion doesn’t mean shit, but I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says, feeling awkward. He’s grateful when that’s the end of it, Kesler picking up his tray and leaving the table. There’s still Oshie to deal with, his fingers digging into the muscle of Patrick’s shoulder, just like Jonny would. “Oshie,” he starts.

“Dude, it’s TJ, seriously,” Oshie says. “What up?”

“Don’t, uh,” Patrick starts, shrugging out from under Oshie’s—TJ’s—grip and standing up. “Don’t work too hard to contradict the rumour mill, okay?”

TJ narrows his eyes, frowning up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t tell people what you don’t know for sure, that’s all.”

TJ susses it, his eyes widening. “No. Way.”

“Yeah, well,” Patrick says. “He’s not my boyfriend, you can say that much.”

“Woah,” TJ says, looking flabbergasted. “That’s—woah.” He stands up suddenly, forcing Patrick to take half a step back, but TJ catches him by the elbow and leans in, voice low. “Look, this isn’t my business, but be careful, okay? Maybe he’s got over it, I dunno, but last I checked he was still a mess about dating guys, so.”

“We’re not dating,” Patrick says with a sigh.

“Yeah,” TJ says, letting him go and grabbing his tray. “That’s what Jonny said last time, too.”

~

Finland isn’t worth talking about. Maybe if they’d had an off day, or even a full twenty-four hours to lick their wounds and get over losing their chance at gold—at silver, god damn—they’d have been able to get it together, but the team’s a wreck and Finland’s playing like bronze means everything, and they can’t beat that. No matter how many penalty shots Patrick gets to take.

When it’s done and there’s nothing left to do but pack up to fly home, Patrick hugs his mom and Jess and ignores her hissed _fix the thing with Jonny, asshole_ in favour of squeezing her so tight she squeals.

“Korea,” his mom says firmly, holding him by both shoulders and giving him a stern look. “You’ll win it for us, then, I know it.”

“Thanks, mom,” Patrick says with a half-smile. “I’m all right.”

“Of course you’re all right,” she says, frowning. “But I know you have this in you, if they’d actually give you the right line-mates, and get some defense that’s reached _puberty—_ ”

“Mom,” he says, cutting her off gently. “I know, it’s cool.”

She deflates a little, pulling him in for a tight hug. “Oh Patty, you know I just want the best for you. It’s been such a—well. This year.” She sniffs into his jacket and then pulls back, straightening her hair in a nervous gesture. “It would have been nice to shut a few people up, that’s all.”

“I…” Patrick says, trailing off. He hasn’t really wondering about what his parents might be hearing from other people, from their friends and neighbours and acquaintances. Knowing Buffalo, probably a mix of heartfelt hometown loyalty and accidental but brutal rudeness. “Well, there’s still the playoffs, right?” he says, managing a real smile.

“Of course, baby,” she says, nodding firmly. “We’re with you all the way.”

“Course,” he echoes, but he catches her by the arm when she goes to turn away. “But, mom, look. It’d be nice to win, but I’m… everything this year, I’m doing good either way. Even if we get bounced first round, I’m gonna be fine, I promise.”

“Oh honey,” she says, wrapping her hand around his where he’s holding on. “I know you will be.” She pats his hand once more, firmly, and then gives him a sharp look. “But don’t get complacent, now.”

Patrick laughs and pulls her back in for another hug. “Yeah, mom, I won’t. Never.”

~


	6. six

~

The front office waits until Monday afternoon to call Patrick, and when they do it’s Stan himself asking him to come in the next morning.

“Joel doesn’t want you in for morning skate, but if you could be in around ten-thirty, that would be great,” Stan says.

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick says, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “I’m working on getting my schedule shifted anyway.”

“It’s nothing big,” Stan says reassuringly. “Just a quick conversation we should have before we get back into the swing of things.”

“No problem,” Patrick answers. It sounds a little ominous, but it’s probably just some post-Olympic check-in.

“Great, thanks, Pat. Oh, and Jon will be there too, just a heads up.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, caught off guard. He swings his feet off the footrest and rubs his free hand along his jaw. “Is this—“

“Just some PR tidying,” Stan interrupts lightly. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Right,” Patrick says, brow furrowing. “I’ll be there.”

“Good, good,” says Stan. “Sorry about the Sochi result, by the way. I’m sure you’re disappointed.”

“I’m sure you aren’t,” Patrick says, forcing a laugh. Stan might have lived much of his life in the States, but Patrick knows Bowman Sr. would brook no international loyalties in tournaments other than Canada in his home.

“Well, I was rooting for you for silver, if that helps,” Stan says, tone teasing, and Patrick cracks a grin into his phone.

“It’s a great comfort, thanks,” Patrick says drily.

Stan laughs. “You’re very welcome. We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Patrick says, letting Stan hang up and then dropping his hand down into his lap, smile falling off as he stares at the home screen of his phone. He thumbs open his messages and scrolls down to Jonny’s name, opening up the conversation. The last message is Patrick’s _sorry, just surprised. If it’s what you want to do then obviously I support you_. He stands up and wanders into his kitchen, thumb scrolling back up through the texts about practice and meet-ups and random chirping and that extended argument they had over whether or not wings and beer could count as an actual meal before he hits the reply box.

 _Did you get a call from Stan?_ he sends, setting his phone down on the counter.

He’s just opened the fridge to dig out one of his meal when his phone pings. He props the fridge door open on his hip and grabs the prepped chicken and rice meal from his service, popping the cover and sticking it in the microwave before he leans over the counter and taps open his phone.

_Yeah, ten thirty tomorrow?_

_Yup_ , Patrick sends back. _I guess I’ll be seeing you there._

Jonny goes silent until Patrick’s dinner is heated up and he’s settling in at the kitchen island. Patrick awkwardly unlocks his phone at the ping with his left hand, shoveling food into his mouth with his right.

_We can drive in together._

That’s just typical Jonny, making it neither a request nor a suggestion, just a statement of fact and the expectation that Patrick will make the final call. Patrick rolls his eyes and puts down his fork to type back. _Idiot. I’ll pick you up at ten._ If Jonny’s gonna be like that, he can deal with Patrick doing the driving.

_Nine forty-five, or we’ll be late._

_No we won’t_ , Patrick replies, and then after a moment of hesitation. _Do you know what it’s about?_

 _Probably me coming out,_ he gets back _. I didn’t get a chance to sit down with PR before._

Before Russia, Sochi—before the Olympics. Patrick knows Jonny’s cutting the sentence off out of politeness and a desire not to bring up bad memories. As if Patrick’s forgotten, two days later.

_Then why do they need me?_

Patrick’s phone rings in his hand, making him jump and choke on a piece of chicken. He’s still coughing when he brings it up to his ear and chokes out, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“What?” Jonny says, sounding confused.

“Never mind,” Patrick says, taking a long swallow of water and clearing his throat. “I can’t believe you didn’t ask before doing that interview, by the way.”

“I didn’t need their permission,” Jonny says, a little pointed, and Patrick makes a protesting sound.

“Chill, asshole, I’m not saying you did. You’re just usually more careful with the media and appearances and shit. You basically did a mic drop and then fled the country.”

“I went to play in the Olympics, _asshole_ ,” Jonny says. “That’s not fleeing the country.”

“Sure,” Patrick says mildly. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, Captain.”

“Shut up,” Jonny grumbles, clever with his comebacks as usual, and Patrick grins helplessly into his phone.

“Hey—” he starts, not sure where he wants to start, or end, or anything in the middle.

“Pat—” Jonny starts at the same time, cutting himself off when Patrick does. “Go ahead,” he adds gruffly, after they both hesitate.

“No, it’s nothing,” Patrick says, pushing his rice around nervously with his fork. “Nothing that can’t wait ‘til tomorrow, anyway. See you at ten?”

“Quarter to,” Jonny insists.

“Yeah sure, ten it is,” Patrick says, grinning at Jonny’s frustrated noise. “Don’t be late meeting me out front and it won’t be a problem.”

“Fuck you,” Jonny says, but Patrick can hear that he’s tamping down on a laugh. “Fine, ten. See you.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He hangs up, still smiling, and digs back into his dinner.

~

Jonny throws himself into the passenger seat of Patrick’s hummer at four minutes past ten, red-faced and flustered-looking as he tosses his backpack into the seat behind them.

“That’s gotta be a record,” Patrick says, putting the car in gear and pulling out of the drive-through lane in front of Jonny’s building.

“Fuck off,” Jonny says, sinking back in his seat and reaching over to change the radio station to that alt rock shit he loves. “The time change is killing me over here.”

“Worse back, eh?” Patrick says.

“Yeah. No sleep doctors or whatever,” Jonny says, yawning wide. “I’m trying to replicate what they told us, but in reverse I’m not sure it’s the same.”

“You’d think Q would’ve been onto that shit,” Patrick says. “But I guess it’s less urgent that we get re-set than the other way around.”

Jonny tilts his head, pursing his lips skeptically. “I guess. We gotta stop slipping in the standings, though.”

“Everyone’ll be on by Saturday, I bet,” Patrick says with a shrug.

“Yeah, I hope you’re right,” Jonny says, rolling his shoulders and stretching his feet out as he slouches down in his seat. “About Sochi,” he says, pausing immediately. Patrick catches Jonny’s quick glance over at him as he’s checking his blind spot to change lanes.

“What about Sochi?” Patrick asks lightly. “If you apologize—“

“No!” Jonny says loudly. “No, geez. You know I wouldn’t—I mean, not about the game.”

“But?” Patrick prods. He’s got a billion questions for Jonny but hasn’t figured out how to phrase a single one of them, not yet.

“I, uh… shit, Carts told me what Doughty said. And was saying.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, frowning. He glances over at Jonny, who’s got his arm braced along the window, fingers tapping at the top part of the frame nervously.

“Yeah, apparently he wasn’t, uh. Very quiet about it. I think all my guys found out,” Jonny says awkwardly.

“Mine, too,” Patrick offers, fingers tight on the steering wheel. He forces them to relax, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. “Which by this point means the entire NHL knows, I’d bet.” Jonny huffs out a breath, half-sigh, half-laugh, and Patrick tosses him a wry grin before twisting it into a more serious expression. “Look, I’m sorry about that.”

“About what?” Jonny asks. Patrick hears him shift in his seat and sees him angle his body towards Patrick out of the corner of his eye.

“About giving it away to Doughty,” Patrick says, frowning. “I know you didn’t want it to get out, I should have been able to keep it quiet.”

“I don’t care,” Jonny says immediately.

“Uh,” Patrick says, blinking at the road. “What—yes you do.”

“I don’t,” Jonny insists. “I came out.”

“As _bi_ , not as _fucking your teammate_ ,” Patrick says, incredulous. “That’s not even close to the same thing.”

“It’s not as if everyone didn’t already think—I’m not _ashamed_ ,” Jonny says. “I don’t need you to lie for me. We were fucking, people know, whatever. It’s done.”

Patrick takes in an unsteady breath. “Yeah, okay, fine,” he says.

“Good,” Jonny says, sounding irritable. Which is straight-up _unfair_ , because Jonny’s been the confusing one in all this, hot and cold and maybe what TJ said makes some of it make sense, but it doesn’t mean Patrick is any closer to figuring out what Jonny wants from him, _now_.

Patrick drives in silence the rest of the way to the IceHouse, pulling into his usual spot and putting the car into park with a little more force than necessary. He leaves the keys in the engine, hands still on the wheel and drive shaft. Jonny unbuckles, twisting around to grab his bag out of the back. When he sits back down and sees that Patrick hasn’t moved, he frowns, nodding at the passenger-side door.

“You coming?” Jonny asks.

“You’re such a douchebag,” Patrick says, frustrated.

“What?” Jonny asks. “ _Why_?”

“TJ told me about Ethan, that’s why.”

“What?” Jonny repeats, sitting up straight and leaning forward to look at Patrick. “Told you _what_ about him?”

“The truth, apparently,” Patrick snaps. He pulls his keys out of the engine and shifts his hips up to shove them into his pocket. Jonny intercepts him with a hand on Patrick’s wrist, fingers closing in a tight circle.

“I _told_ you the truth,” Jonny insists.

“TJ said—“

“TJ says a lot of shit,” Jonny says over him, but Patrick grits his teeth and goes on.

“TJ said that he _was_ your boyfriend. It might’ve been nice if you hadn’t lied to me about that.”

Jonny lets his wrist go, pulling back to lean against the door of the car. “I—what. I didn’t… it wasn’t _like_ that.”

“Right,” Patrick says, and he _knows_ he’s being unfair but he can’t stop the words from spilling out. “It was more like you were crazy about him and he fucked you over.”

Jonny flinches, and turns in his seat to push open the car door. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Not with _me_?” Patrick says, incredulous, but Jonny’s already out of the car. Patrick yanks off his seatbelt and climbs down, slamming the door shut behind him. “Who the fuck else should you be talking about it with, then?” he shouts after Jonny, who’s halfway through the parking lot already. Patrick breathes out, leaning back against the car and running a hand through his hair. God _damnit_.

~

It’s just Stan and their top PR guys, Adam and Meg, in the meeting with him and Jonny, and Stan seems easy enough through the welcomes and small talk. Jonny’s a little brusque, but he pulls himself together as Stan offers them coffee and invites them to sit at the low circle of couches in his expansive office. Stan takes the armchair and Meg and Adam settle in at one couch, so Patrick sits next to Jonny. Jonny frowns as Patrick’s movements jostle his drink, but he doesn’t say anything to Patrick.

“So, obviously, Jon, we need to have that sit-down with you to sort out a strategy with regards to your announcement before the Olympics,” Stan starts, matter-of-fact. “It will be more straightforward than with Pat, of course, since he’s paved the way and now we all,” he gestures to the five of them, “know what we’re doing here. But you didn’t exactly give us much of a heads up, so we’ll have to straighten some things out. Ah. Well,” he cracks a grin. “You know what I mean.”

Patrick laughs, but Jonny’s quiet beside him, fingers wrapped tight around his mug. Stan clears his throat, and Adam leans in, earnest.

“I _understand_ why you didn’t want to make a big deal of it, Jon, but it really would have been better if—”

“It wasn’t going to change anything—” Jonny starts hotly, but Stan holds up a hand and they both fall silent.

“Gentlemen, we had this conversation already. It’s done, and I’d much rather be talking about the future than the past.”

Jonny grimaces, but nods, and Adam sits back, smile placating. “Of course, of course,” Adam says.

Patrick clears his throat. “So, uh, what do you need me here for? Just some perspective or something?”

Meg and Adam exchange a quick glance, and at Adam’s nod Meg turns to smile worryingly at Patrick. “If you’ve got any advice for us from your perspective, Patrick, that’d be very much appreciated, but the reason we wanted to include you in this conversation is a little more specific than that.”

This time Jonny looks at Patrick when Patrick turns his head, his brows flat and mouth tense.

“More specific?” Patrick asks. He props his elbows on his knees, bringing his mug up to take a sip while watching Meg’s face contort into something embarrassed, before smoothing out into her usual steady, open expression. She wasn’t around back when he went through his rockier days of needing PR to bail him out once or twice a year, but she was a steady presence late last summer, when he first came to the Hawks with his desire to come out, and through the constant media coverage during the fall. “What do you mean?”

Meg frowns, looking a little bit confused. “Well, we thought you’d, ah…”

“We were wondering if the two of you wanted to give us a heads up about anything,” Stan intervenes smoothly. “There’s been talk around the league, since the Olympics, about your relationship, and we’d like to get—“

“Our _relationship_?” Jonny says, breaking his silence. “That’s what this meeting is about?”

Stan looks discomfited, but nods. “You both know I generally prefer not to let the players’ personal lives become a business topic, but we feel that in this case—“

“There isn’t any _this case_ ,” Jonny says. “I came out. That doesn’t have anything to do with—that’s the whole story here.”

“Jon,” Stan says patiently. “I’m not trying to get into your business here. But the story is out there, and maybe it’s just league gossip right now, but it won’t stay that way. We can head it off, or we can let Deadspin break it, but we’ve got to at least make a decision and not be caught off guard.”

Jonny presses his lips tight together, shaking his head once. Patrick sighs, rubbing his hand to his mouth. So much for Jonny not caring who knew—but then, there’s a difference between other players thinking they’re fucking, and management wanting to know the details of their relationship for PR purposes.

“They’re saying what, exactly?” Patrick asks, thumbing the wet rim of his mug and looking up at Stan. “That we’re sleeping together? Have been for years? That we’re dating? Engaged?” He cracks a grin. “Got secretly and illegally married in Sochi?”

Stan laughs, relaxing back in his chair. “I imagine the gossip that’s reached upper management is a little more sanitized than what’s floating around in the locker room, but essentially the word is that you’re together.”

“Right,” Patrick says, nodding. “We’re not.”

Stan nods, but tilts his head and asks, “And the rest of it?”

“Definitely not married,” Patrick says lightly.

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Patrick.”

Patrick shrugs. “The rest of it isn’t your business.”

Adam inhales, and Patrick can feel Jonny stiffen next to him. Patrick takes a sip of his coffee.

Meg slides forward on the couch, giving Patrick a small smile. “Pat, last fall you said to us that you didn’t want to worry about speculation regarding your dating life. That you wanted to come out, so that you could be with whomever, go out with men without having to wonder what people would be saying. We want to make sure you still feel that’s possible, and that we’re going to support you however we can in that.”

“I know,” Patrick says. “I do. But there’s a difference between….” He brings a hand to his forehead, rubbing his fingers at his temple while he thinks about it. “The public, the media know I’m gay,” he says finally. “And hopefully they get that means that I’ll be dating men.” His mouth twists into a small smile, and Meg grins back at him. “Wondering who… that’s another thing. Wanting to keep that private isn’t any different from any guy on this team wanting to keep his girlfriend out of the public eye.”

“From a normal public relations perspective, I agree,” Stan says, leaning back in his chair. “And I wouldn’t suggest making an announcement—but none of the other players on this team are in the position to be dating teammates. It’s a unique situation, and I don’t feel comfortable ignoring it. For one, you’re both already _in_ the public eye, and there’s also the team aspect to consider. If you don’t want to involve Adam and Meghan in that, I understand, but if there’s another conversation we should be having, then let’s have that one instead.”

Patrick shakes his head. “If there’s something the team needs to know, they’ll know it.” He takes another long drink of his coffee, and then puts it down, standing up. “I’ll let you guys figure out Jonny’s PR strategy.” He looks down at Jonny, who’s frowning up at him, brow furrowed and lips pressed into a flat line. “If you want my perspective on anything, give me a shout.”

“Alright then,” Stan says, standing up. He claps Patrick on the shoulder as Patrick steps by, heading for the door, meeting Patrick’s eyes. “I appreciate your honesty, Patrick.”

From anyone else, Patrick thinks, it would be pointed, but Stan’s always understood him off the ice, even when nobody else did. Patrick nods, and leaves the four of them to it.

~

Patrick goes down to the gym and ends up spending half an hour on the bike. Nothing too intense, just some short intervals and then a long cool-down to get his blood pumping and get his system back into gear, post-jetlag. He ends up in a long conversation with Jeff about the effects of time-changes on energy levels and stamina, and the grabs a post-practice lunch with the half-team who made it in for practice. Jonny doesn’t show, and when Patrick slides into his chair next to Saader, he sends him a text.

_PR taking forever? Need a rescue?_

Jonny doesn’t text back until he’s cleared his plate. _No, went home_.

 _By magic carpet? wth_ Patrick types back immediately.

_Caught a cab._

Patrick frowns down at the words.

“Everything okay?” Saader asks.

“Huh?” Patrick says, looking up and seeing him and Leds both watching him curiously, “Oh, yeah. Just Jonny being a douchebag.”

“About the game?” Saader says, frowning.

“Nah,” Patrick says. “He wouldn’t say anything. Too noble for that.”

Saader grins. “Sounds like Tazer.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a sigh. “Sure does.”

~

Jonny—and Sharpy and Duncs—aren’t at the Hawks’ Wednesday morning practice, either, so Patrick can’t even try to get a read on Jonny. He’s started and deleted about six texts since Jonny disappeared on him after the meeting, ranging from the clichéd _we need to talk_ to the baiting _never took you for a coward_ to the absolutely un-sendable _I want to do this for real, asshole._

Patrick figures the team must have heard the rumours coming out of Sochi—hell, he’s gotten three well-meaning texts from friends on other teams letting him know what they’ve been hearing (and two more that he’s pretty sure were less well-meaning and more gossip-grubbing)—but nobody says anything through practice. Patrick’s not sure if that’s because they don’t believe it, or if they _do_ and just don’t have anything to say about it. 

That question gets answered on their late afternoon flight to New York. Sharpy takes him by the elbow and drags him into a seat several rows behind where Jonny’s planted himself. Jonny’s already got his headphones in and is pretending to be engrossed in the stupid airplane magazine that he’s bitched about as being dull and pointless dozens of times. If he’s fooling anyone, it isn’t Patrick.

“You know what they’re saying?” Sharpy says as the plane takes off.

“Uh, yeah,” Patrick says, making a face. “I’m not deaf.”

Sharpy gives him a look and leans his elbow on the armrest. “Listen, I backed off because I thought you guys might be actually working your shit out, but if you’re just messing around still….”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Patrick grits out. He turns away in his seat as best he can, leaning forward to grab his water from his bag. When he sits back upright, Sharpy grabs the water bottle out of his hands. “Hey!” Patrick says. “What the fuck?”

“Jonny’s doing his stoic-captain routine that I thought we harassed out of him three years ago. I can’t get two words out of him,” Sharpy says. “What the hell happened in Sochi?”

“What do you _think_ happened in Sochi?” Patrick snaps, snatching his water bottle back and taking a long drink. “We fucked around, people figured it out. The end. You want the gory details?”

“I’m trying not to think about it too hard, thanks,” Sharpy drawls. “Listen, whatever you said, I don’t think you’re in this for sex, and I don’t think Jonny is either. Which means one or both of you is gonna get really fucked up if you don’t talk this shit out. Just because you got outed, doesn’t mean you should avoid each other.”

“Thanks, Doctor Phil,” Patrick says sarcastically. “That’s not why. And I’m not avoiding him, anyway. This is on him, okay?”

“Have you _told_ him that?” Sharpy says, sounding exasperated. “Because look. If there’s one thing I know from years of marriage, it’s that if somebody’s sitting around waiting for an apology, chances are the other person is, too.”

“I’m not waiting for an apology,” Patrick says. “It was my fault Doughty found out, anyway. And _yes_ ,” he says, cutting Sharpy off. “I apologized for it. And he said it was fine. So we’re peachy keen, okay?”

“I…” Sharpy starts, shaking his head as he trails off. He sits back in his seat with a thunk. “Alright, fine,” he says shortly. “Don’t talk to me, then.”

“Oh, fuck that,” Patrick hisses. “Don’t play that card, you’re not—I’m not your _kid_ , you can’t guilt me into talking to you about things that are none of your god-damned business.”

“You’re my business,” Sharpy says shortly.

“Yeah, okay, and normally that’s awesome and it’s great knowing you have my back and all, but this isn’t just about me, and you _know_ how private Jonny is about this stuff.” He rakes a shaky hand through his hair. “I can’t tell you what’s up without telling you stuff he’d hate me forever for sharing with you, okay?”

Sharpy’s expression softens a little as he looks over at Patrick, but he says, “He’s _out_! It’s not like you’re trying to protect him anymore.”

“It’s not that simple,” Patrick says, meeting Sharpy’s eyes. “And I can’t… it’s up to him, okay? I can’t push it.” And it’s true, even if he hadn’t realized it until now. He can’t show up at Jonny’s door and yell at him until he gets his shit together enough to want Patrick—to want to _be_ with Patrick. If Jonny can’t even talk about his ex, Patrick can’t force him to suddenly be okay with it. It sucks, and Patrick feels the weight of being absolutely sure there’s nothing he can do settle into his chest. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, looking away from Sharpy.

“Oh, damnit,” Sharpy says, but his words are reflected back on himself, and the hand on Patrick’s shoulder is a heavy, comforting weight. “I’m sorry, Kaner. For pushing, and for whatever the hell is going on with him that’s fucking you both up like this.” Sharpy’s fingers tighten, digging in. “Can I just say one more thing?”

Patrick nods, taking another sip of water to clear the tightness in his throat.

“Maybe you have already, but… make sure he knows you want to listen. About whatever it is that he’s fucked up about, make sure he knows you want to hear it.” Sharpy lets go of Patrick’s shoulder and waves a hand at the back of the seat in front of them. “You know how much he internalizes shit, and you know how he hates to impose on anybody else, even when he should. Make sure he knows you want to hear it. That’s all.”

Patrick nodes, managing a, “yeah, sure”, before Sharpy nods and pulls out his iPad to give Patrick some space to think.

~

It pains him to admit it, but Sharpy may be kind of right, even though he has no idea what he’s talking about. When he thinks back to his conversation with Jonny in the car… well, it really wasn’t so much a conversation as a “fuck you, asshole”. He can see why Jonny might not have taken that as an invitation to share his feelings, even if Patrick thinks it was pretty clear that he was angry with Jonny for what he _hadn’t_ said, not for what he _had_.

Still, it’s awkward at practice to skate up to Jonny and tap their sticks together during a break. Partly because Patrick can feel the eyes of the entire team on them, and partly because when Jonny looks down at him he’s watching Patrick’s chin, not his eyes, like he can’t quite bring himself to meet them.

Patrick sighs. “You don’t need to avoid me,” he says quietly. He pushes with his skates just enough to turn his body towards Jonny’s and create the illusion of privacy between them. “I’m not pissed at you.” Well, not much. He’d rather know what’s going on than hold a grudge, at any rate.

“Maybe I’m pissed at you,” Jonny says over his shoulder. Patrick bites down on his lip. Jonny finally looks at him, flat expression shifting a little when he sees—whatever’s on Patrick’s face right now. Patrick’s really not sure, and he’s sick of trying to hide shit from Jonny, so whatever it is… is. “I’m pissed at TJ,” Jonny offers, after a moment.

“He meant well,” Patrick says. “He didn’t know—he meant it as, I dunno. One friend of Jonathan Toews to another, you know?” Jonny drops his chin in the smallest of nods, turning away to watch Antti where he’s stretching at his net. “It’s good, too,” Patrick adds. “You were… Jesus, man. You were fucking confusing.”

“And now you have the answers to all of your questions, huh?” Jonny asks, words dripping with sarcasm. “Congratulations on solving the mystery of me, then.”

Patrick snorts, avoiding the taunt. “Yeah, as if. Maybe if you’d actually talk to me, though.”

“Does it matter?” Jonny asks, gloved hand closing tight on the handle of his stick. Patrick reaches out and grabs on, pulling the stick and Jonny with it around until they’re face to face again.

“Jonny,” he starts, pausing to wet his dry lips, gaze dropping away from Jonny’s dark, furrowed stare to the Indian head on his practice jersey. “You—fuck, you matter a lot to me, okay? And not just…” he trails off, but Jonny tugs on his stick, like he’s trying to pull the words out of Patrick, and Patrick lets them go. “Not just as a friend,” he finishes on an exhale, eyes flicking back up to Jonny’s.

Jonny wide mouth is flat, eyes narrowed, like Patrick’s just said something confusing. Patrick doesn’t know why that would be, not when he’s been so obvious, these last few weeks. He’s halfway to asking when Q calls out at them across the rink, startling them both. They push apart without another word to skate across the ice in long, easy strides, perfectly in sync here if nowhere else.

~

Patrick’s just getting out of the cab, coming back from dinner after the game with his dad, when his phone pings. He waits until he’s in the warmth of the lobby to take off his gloves and pull it out of his pocket. It’s Jonny, just a short _you around?_ Patrick’s stomach flips—in nervousness or anticipation, he’s not really sure—and he texts back _just getting back to the hotel, why?_

Jonny doesn’t answer, but when Patrick gets up to his floor Jonny’s leaning against the wall across from the door to Patrick’s room. He straightens up when he spots Patrick.

“Hey man,” Patrick says, pulling his keycard out of his wallet. “I thought you went out for dinner.”

“Wasn’t feeling it,” Jonny says with a shrug. “Besides, I think…”

“What?” Patrick prods, half-afraid Jonny’s here to fuck, half-afraid he isn’t. He unlocks the door and pushes it open.

Jonny takes a breath, and says, “We should talk.”

Patrick looks back at him. Jonny’s completely still, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes fixed on Patrick. Patrick steps aside, holding open the door with one hand, and gestures inside with the other. “Yeah, okay,” Patrick says. “Let’s talk.”

~

Jonny walks the length of the room and pulls back the curtains while Patrick puts his coat and jacket away in the closet, his heart hammering away in his chest. Patrick sits on the end of his bed to take a breath and get rid of his dress shoes. He twists his tie loose and pulls it out of his collar and tosses it behind him on the bed, unbuttoning the top couple buttons of his shirt before he stops, wondering how it would look if Jonny turned around now, what he might think Patrick’s looking for. He drops his hands to the bed, watching Jonny’s shoulders shift under dress shirt. Shirt and pants aside, Jonny’s tieless and in socked-feet, so he must have been back in his room for a while before Patrick came in.

“Waiting up for me, eh?” Patrick says, lips curling up in a small smile as Jonny turns around.

Jonny tilts his head in a shrug. “I knew you were out with your dad. Figured you’d be back around now.”

“Good guess,” Patrick says. He rolls his shoulders and then leans back on his hands, feet pressing flat to the floor, expectant. Waiting for Jonny to start this, whatever it is.

“I wasn’t lying,” Jonny says abruptly. “Ethan wasn’t my boyfriend.”

“That’s not what TJ said,” Patrick says, when Jonny doesn’t seem inclined to go on. “He said Ethan was a douche, but still… that you dated him in your sophomore year. Like, exclusively.” He bites down on his inner lip, giving Jonny a half shrug. “If that’s not a boyfriend…”

Jonny’s mouth twists. “Did TJ tell you how it ended?” he asks.

Patrick shakes his head, and Jonny takes a deep breath before grabbing the desk chair and sliding into it. He sprawls back until he’s watching the ceiling instead of Patrick.

“I said something about him coming to visit me in Chicago in the fall,” Jonny says softly. His eyes are shut, Patrick realizes, like he’s recalling back to it in vivid detail. “He laughed at me. He said, _what do you think I am, your boyfriend? Christ, JT. You’re a decent fuck and you give great head, but I’m not fucking following you anywhere_.”

“Jesus,” Patrick says, sitting up straight.

“So, no,” Jonny goes on, tilting his head down to look at Patrick. “I don’t tell people he was my boyfriend, because I feel like an idiot for ever thinking that might have been the case.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, leaning in. Jonny looks away from him again, hands folded tight across his stomach. “And that’s—I can see that. But you let me think you didn’t want to date guys, that it’s not something you want now, at all. Except with Ethan, you did want it.”

Jonny shakes his head, tucking his chin into his shoulder. “What I wanted then, it didn’t matter. That wasn’t what it was. Ethan never promised me anything. If TJ said he, whatever, cheated on me, he didn’t. We were never exclusive.” He looks over at Patrick, and Patrick’s startled at how open Jonny’s expression is, eyes wide and imploring. “It was my fault for hanging around like an asshole.”

"I doubt that, man," Patrick says.

"It doesn’t matter,” Jonny says with a shrug. "It was a long time ago. I moved on."

"I’m not saying you didn’t," Patrick says, stomach tight. "I mean, I dunno that moving on to never fucking dudes again is exactly—“ He shakes his head, because the point is really, “—but then I went and did the same thing," Patrick says, clasping his hands together between his knees as he watches Jonny tensely.

Jonny’s face closes off, eyes narrowing rapidly. “It wasn’t the same,” Jonny says, straightening up.

"Obviously, but—"

"It wasn’t, okay?" Jonny says, insistent. "I wouldn’t have suggested it if….” He takes a breath, pressing his hand to his neck. "I was like a god-damned teenage girl over Ethan, okay? I couldn’t—it wasn’t a relationship, a relationship takes two people who want it, but yeah, fine, I was into him. Too much to stop when it was obviously fucked up."

"And you didn’t want that with me," Patrick observes, because he’s sure that was true, when this all started. Nothing about the beginning of this had seemed complicated, and Patrick’s certain that wasn’t just him being blind.

"Not like that," Jonny says, exhaling and rubbing a hand through his hair. "No, I wouldn’t have suggested it if I had, that would have been fucked up. I would have been taking advantage of you, if I’d wanted more and said it was just sex."

“Jonny,” Patrick starts. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “I wish you’d said something.”

“I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t do something casual,” Jonny says. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubs his hands through his hair. “It didn’t—it didn’t stay casual, though.”

“Shit, no,” Patrick says with a ragged laugh.

Jonny looks up and frowns. “I didn’t think it changed, for you.”

Patrick’s mouth drops open. “What?” he manages. “Are you—for real?”

Jonny shrugs, sitting back in his chair. “Yeah. I thought you just wanted… you know, to practice. I mean, it was good, obviously, but that doesn’t mean anything.” His mouth twists in a mockery of a smile. Patrick’s stomach goes tight, but Jonny just adds, “I figured you were done with it. And then you were so upset about Ethan, finding out he was my—except we had the meeting.”

“The meeting?” Patrick asks, confused. “With Stan?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says. “When he asked if we were together, you said—”

“—the truth,” Patrick interrupts. “I said no.”

“Sure,” Jonny says easily. “But you didn’t—you could have laughed it off. You could have said _never_. You could have reassured Stan and PR that they had nothing to worry about, but…” he trails off with a shrug. “You didn’t. And then at practice, this morning,” Jonny adds, tilting his head and watching Patrick. “What did you mean by that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Patrick asks, but apparently he hadn’t been. Apparently he’s left Jonny wondering, just as much as Patrick’s been. God, what a mess. He stands up abruptly and starts nervously unbuttoning his cuffs to roll them up over his forearms. “Jesus, Jonny. I don’t just want to practice with you. I want this to be, shit. I want it to be for keeps.”

“Isn’t it already?” Jonny asks. Patrick turns to look down at him with a frown. “I mean, it’s been months, and we’re still fucking, so—”

“Holy shit,” Patrick explodes. Jonny flinches, pushing back in the chair until he hits the desk. “I mean I want to date, asshole.”

Jonny blinks up at him. “You’re kidding,” he says flatly.

Patrick pushes his hands through his hair, lost for words. “Are you really gonna make me say it again?”

“Wait, was this supposed to be obvious?” Jonny asks, standing up so he can glare down at Patrick. “Because, what the fuck, Pat. All you ever talked about is every other guy you’ve yet to actually sleep with.”

"I thought that’s what I was supposed to be talking about!" Patrick shouts, throwing up his hands. "I thought that’s what you wanted, so I was doing my god damned best to make it not get weird, okay? But it was—shit, Jonny, I haven’t been able to think of anyone but you since we started this."

"I don’t—"

"No, listen," Patrick says forcefully. He needs to be clear, because there’s too much at stake for him to be too cowardly to tell Jonny the truth. "It wasn’t good with you because the sex was good. It _was_ , sex with you was _so_ good and so new and so much everything I’d been waiting for that I didn’t realize why.” He flexes his hands by his sides, looking away from Jonny’s focused gaze. “I’ve never had sex with anyone I cared about, I didn’t even know what it would be like. And I think that got lost in having sex with a man, first. But it’s you,” he says, looking back up at Jonny. “And it’s me, and it was like everything that’s always been great about our relationship, our friendship, but more.”

"Patrick," Jonny says, his tone pleading like he wants Patrick to stop talking but Patrick shakes his head and presses on, voice wavering with tension but not giving out on him yet.

"I thought you didn’t want more. You kept saying you wouldn’t date a guy. It didn’t occur to me that wasn’t you saying you wouldn’t date _me_."

“Pretty sure you’re a guy,” Jonny says, mouth twisting into the shape of a small, uneasy smile.

Patrick’s laugh comes out a little high pitched, a little hysterical. He sits back down on the edge of a bed, rubbing a shaky hand across his face, hiding behind his hands. “I thought you just didn’t want to be out, except then you were. Already, to your family—to the guys and then everybody. I really thought it was just me you didn’t want, then,” he says, muffled.

“Oh,” Jonny breathes out. The bed dips beside Patrick. Jonny’s hand finds his shoulder blade, fingertips spanning out along his spine, thumb pushing into the cap of muscle. Patrick sighs deeply, and pulls his hands away from his face, pressing them to his knees instead.

“I do want you,” Jonny says when Patrick stills. It’s almost too much to hear, after everything, and Patrick turns his face away. “I kept trying not to,” Jonny goes on, voice low and steady. “But I couldn’t—you’re something else, Pat. You’ve always been amazing to me, and then you got to be _mine_. Even if it was just for an hour or two.” He shakes his head, his hand shifting on Patrick’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to mess us up.”

“Too late for that,” Patrick says with a rough laugh.

Jonny slides his hand across Patrick’s back, up to grip at the base of his neck, under his collar. Patrick sags into it. “I want this, but I don’t…” Jonny says, and Patrick tenses up again.

“You don’t what?” Patrick asks, twisting to look Jonny in the eye.

It’s Jonny’s turn to look away, staring at the blank screen of the television in front of them. “It doesn’t change everything,” Jonny says quietly, hand falling away from Patrick’s neck to wrap around his own, skewing his splayed-open collar. “It’s still a bad idea.”

“But—”

“For us, yeah, because we _play_ together,” Jonny says, urgent but not harsh. “But for me, too. I’m, shit, Pat,” he glances over, deep lines etched in his forehead. “It fucked me up, I know it did. But I can’t change it. And I can’t go back.”

“I…” Patrick says, mouth open as he breathes in unsteadily. “It wouldn’t be going back.”

“I’m not saying no,” Jonny says, standing up. “I’m _not_. But I need some time, okay? We can’t fuck this up. Sharpy’s right, it could destroy the Hawks.”

“Yeah, I know,” Patrick says with a wince. He gets to his feet, touching Jonny on the arm until he turns back to face him. “If you’re not sure if you want to, we shouldn’t—”

Jonny cuts him off, encircling Patrick’s wrist in a firm grip where Patrick’s still reaching out, fingers pressed into Jonny’s shirtsleeves. Patrick freezes, watching Jonny’s mouth as Jonny brings his other hand up to cup Patrick’s jaw and tilt his face up.

“Wanting to isn’t the problem,” Jonny says quietly, thumb tracing along the arch of Patrick’s cheekbone. Patrick curls his fingers into the fabric of Jonny’s shirt, tugging gently. Jonny steps in and ducks his head down to press their lips together.

It’s chaste, until it isn’t. Patrick’s not sure who opens first, only that now his tongue is sliding against Jonny’s and the space between them has closed to nothing at all. Patrick’s hands find their way to Jonny’s back, bunching up the untucked hem of his shirt until he finds skin. Jonny exhales, a soft breath against Patrick’s mouth, when Patrick slides his hands up to tug him closer. Jonny pushes his own hand around to cup at the base of Patrick’s skull, fingernails scraping through Patrick’s hair and pulling a whine from his throat.

It’s so good to be wrapped up in Jonny and sure, for once, that Jonny’s feeling something back. It makes it even more overwhelming than it’s always been, Jonny’s hands and mouth on him, working him up into a warm, dizzy heat of perfect lust. Patrick presses his hips against the thick thigh Jonny’s pushed up against Patrick’s dick, and feels Jonny’s erection in return, a firm line against Patrick’s abs. Patrick groans and tips his head to the side, mouth finding the hot skin over Jonny’s fast-beating pulse. Jonny slides his tongue along the curve of Patrick’s ear, his hand pressed to the small of Patrick’s back, before leaning away, just enough to look Patrick in the eye.

“You can,” Jonny says, a little stilted. “You can, with other guys. You should.”

“What?” Patrick says stupidly, short of breath. He presses his thumbs to Jonny’s ribs.

“I mean, you don’t have to wait,” Jonny says. “You should—I don’t mind.”

Patrick pulls away, startled. “You’re saying I should fuck other guys?” he asks in disbelief.

Jonny shrugs stiffly, hands coming up to straighten his shirt. “I need some time to think,” he says.

“Are we talking days, here?” Patrick asks, still thrown. “Weeks? Months?”

“I don’t—weeks?” Jonny offers. “I don’t know. But even if it were days—you haven’t, you haven’t done much, and I figure you’d want to, you know.”

“Fuck other men.”

“Right,” Jonny says. “I don’t mind.”

Patrick rubs the back of his hand along his mouth. “Jesus, Tazer,” he says weakly. “You really are fucked up about this.”

Jonny bristles. “It’s not about that.”

“Oh, so maybe you just want somebody more experienced, then,” Patrick snaps.

“No!” Jonny says loudly, stepping in close again to grip Patrick by the shoulders. “No, I’ve just….”

“Never had a boyfriend,” Patrick finishes. “Not one who didn’t fuck around on you, anyway.”

Jonny tugs on his lower lip with his teeth, and looks away from Patrick. “It’s not about that,” he repeats, but it’s hollow.

“Yeah?” Patrick says, more gently. “Look me in the eye and tell me you can stand the idea of somebody else in my bed. Because I can’t stand the thought of it, with you.”

“I can’t ask for that if I can’t—”

“Fuck that,” Patrick interrupts. “Yes, you fucking can. You’ve just gotta ask, Jonny.”

Jonny shakes his head, looking lost, and so, so young. “I need some time,” he says quietly.

Patrick sighs, pulling away entirely. “Yeah, okay. I’m not—there’s the rest of the season, okay? I’m not gonna be looking, anyway. I can give you that.”

“You don’t have to give me anything,” Jonny says, and Patrick groans, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“You’re a mess,” he says, too fond. “I want to. Just—go figure your shit out, asshole.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonny says, sincere and serious. “I wish—I wish I could just—” He reaches out, fingers finding Patrick’s wrist again, fingers stroking at the thin, sensitive skin over the veins.

Patrick shivers, listing in before he freezes. God damn, he wants him so badly.  “I know,” Patrick says hoarsely. “But I can’t—you have to go, or we’re gonna…” He twists his wrist out of Jonny’s grip.

“We could just—” Jonny starts, cutting off at Patrick’s sharp noise of protest.

“I can’t do it, man,” Patrick says. “I can’t, not without wanting everything, okay?”

Jonny nods, biting down on his lip. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll go.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says heavily. He waits until Jonny’s left, door clicking shut behind him, to sink back down to the edge of the bed and press his hands to his face. He’s still hard in his slacks, the twist in his gut at saying no not enough to wipe away how good it felt to kiss Jonny again, but if he jerks off now it’ll be the world’s saddest orgasm. “Fuck,” he says to the empty room. “God _damnit_.”

He does it anyway, dick pulled out through his unzipped fly. His dress shirt pulls awkwardly at his shoulder as he works himself over, dry and uncomfortable.  For a long time, he thought getting off alone was as good as sex was ever going to get for him. Now, it’s a mockery of everything that’s just out of reach, but it’s still firm pressure and it gets him there. He comes silently, spilling over his fist onto his shirt, wondering if Jonny’s doing the same thing just down the hall.

~


	7. seven

~

Patrick drops into the seat next to Jonny on the flight the next morning, exhausted and tense. Jonny looks over at him, surprise evident on his face, but all he says is a soft ‘hey’. Patrick nods back and leans back in his seat, letting his eyes fall shut and trying fruitlessly to catch a little more sleep. Even after all these years of flying, he’s still crap at sleeping sitting up.

“You okay?” Jonny asks, when they’ve been in the air for ten minutes, and Patrick’s shifting around, trying to get comfortable.

“Just tired,” Patrick says, cracking his neck. “Late night, early flight. You know.”

“Right.” Jonny nods.

Patrick elbows Jonny’s arm where it’s taking up the entire middle armrest, wide as it is in their charter.  “Don’t be weird,” he says.

“Well, sorry,” Jonny says, sounding huffy as he pulls his arm back into himself. “It’s kind of weird. I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s still _us_ ,” Patrick says quietly. “You say what you normally say. Nothing’s gotta change, just cause…” he trails off, shrugging. When he glances over at Jonny, Jonny’s frowning at him. Jonny looks away as soon as Patrick meets his eyes, reaching out to poke at the screen in front of him. “What was it like when you started up with Ethan?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

Jonny frowns, but it’s considering, not cornered, and Patrick turns towards him. “I dunno, pretty much the same,” Jonny says eventually “Outside of—we weren’t friends before. We still played together, that was it, and not on the same line or anything. Around the guys, the team, it was just the same. The rest of it was, I dunno. Private.”

“The rest of it being sex, you mean?” Patrick asks.

Jonny shakes his head, watching the silent newscaster on the screen in front of him. “It wasn’t just—well. I didn’t think it was. But I guess I was wrong.”

Patrick’s quiet, watching Jonny’s profile as he thinks about it. Jonny puts up with it for a minute, and then turns to make a face at Patrick. “What?” he says flatly.

“I dunno,” Patrick says, turning away. “Just cause he said what he did, in the end, doesn’t make it true. That nothing before that meant anything.”

Jonny makes a face at him. Patrick makes one back, and Jonny rolls his eyes, settling back in his seat. “Fine. The forecast says snow on Saturday.”

“What?” Patrick says, confused.

Jonny raises his eyebrows. “Normal conversation, Kaner, catch up. I’ve got this year’s Winter Classic game tape to watch, you want to see?”

“Sure,” Patrick says, blankly. “You didn’t watch it live?”

“Yeah, but if we’re going to be playing in snow too, I want to know what works. See how the puck moves, what usual plays look too risky, that kind of thing.”

“Aren’t you all practiced at that, Manitoba?” Patrick asks with a grin.

“Winnipeg’s got a dry winter,” Jonny says seriously. Patrick raises his eyebrows and Jonny breaks into a smarmy grin. “What? You asked.”

“I guess I did,” Patrick says, grinning back. “Pull it up, come on. It’s a short flight.”

~

It’s a good thing it’s a quick flight, because the rest of the day is _packed_ with promo events for the stadium series game. Patrick figures it’s a solid excuse to give Jonny some room to think. He doesn’t want to. He’d much rather invade Jonny’s space and make it as obvious as possible that it would _work_ , that they’d be so good together. But Jonny asked for time. Patrick’s not going to be a dick about it, not if he can help it.

That, and Patrick’s having a hard time not letting his eyes slip over Jonny’s body in the locker room, or get stuck on his red lips when they’re talking on ice, or flash back to the way Jonny looked when Patrick pressed his body up against him and slid home.

“—ner. _Kaner_.”

“Huh?” Patrick says, looking away from where Jonny’s chatting with Hoss on the other side of the locker room. Steeger looks over at Jonny and then back down at Patrick, waggling his eyebrows, and Patrick wills himself not to blush. Fuck Jonny and his inability to wear pants. “Sorry, what?”

Steeger sits down next to him, shouldering Patrick roughly and nodding over to Jonny. “So, it’s true then? Or are the rumors just making you think about it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Patrick says flatly, leaning down to unlace his shoes and start getting ready.

“Oh, like you don’t know,” Steeger says, leaning back in Shawzy’s stall. “All the shit coming out of the Olympics, with the two of you at the front of the, uh, American-Canadian bilateral diplomacy?”

Patrick gives Steeger a disbelieving look. “ _Really_?” he says. “Bilateral dipl—that’s what you’re going with?”

Steeger shrugs. “Fine, bilateral blowies.”

“Oh god,” Patrick says, shaking his head and trying not to laugh.

“Like the alliteration, do you?” Steeger says, waggling his eyebrows, and Patrick laughs outright.

“Nothing’s going on,” Patrick says, when Steeger doesn’t go away. It’s true, if depressingly so.

Steeger shoots a surprisingly thoughtful look at him, but just shrugs. “If you say so,” he says, standing up to head back to his own stall.

~

Patrick watches from behind the boards with Sharpy while Jonny heads out with the little kid, Nicholas, before practice skate. It’s pretty adorable, watching Jonny keep his most serious game-face on as he lets Nicholas put pucks by him again and again. He half-wants to go kick Roszy off the ice and join in, but he stays where he is until Q calls for practice to start.

It’s a loose one, with Q still keeping the pace down for the Olympians, and Jonny’s aggressively cheerful with his team, mock-celebrating goals with Sharpy and harassing Kruger about his face-offs. He’s also making the whole “give Jonny space” thing challenging, because he keeps coming up to Patrick and _looking_ at him, a little tentative in a way that makes Patrick’s chest hurt. Jonny frowns when Patrick shoves him away and tells him to go play keep-away with Shawzy instead. Patrick groans, low, leaning back against the half-boards as Jonny skates away.

Sharpy skates up to him and shoulder-checks him gently. “Your feelings are showing,” he says.

“Mine are showing?” Patrick says, skeptically. “What about Captain Six-Year-Old over there?” He nods at Jonny, who’s pinned Shawzy to the boards for a puck-less board-battle.

“Yeah, but his always are,” Sharpy says. “It’s not exactly a mystery that he’s been crazy about you forever.”

Patrick shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that,” he says quietly. “This is—it’s new, okay? For both of us.”

Sharpy looks at him intently, taking Patrick’s words for the admission they are. Maybe nothing’s settled yet, but Patrick’s heart sure is, and he’s done denying it. Patrick looks back, holding his breath, until Sharpy nods. “Maybe it wasn’t like it is now,” Sharpy says. “But he’s always loved your hockey, and he’s never been shy about that.”

“Have I been?” Patrick asks with a frown. They talk about each other in the media, a lot. Maybe Jonny more than him, as Captain, but Patrick gets his fair share of interviews. And sure, they chirp each other as often as they praise each other, but he doesn’t think he says less than Jonny. “It’s pretty clear I think he’s an amazing player.”

Sharpy frowns, like he’s considering his words. “Sure, but you… well, you don’t go out of your way, not the way Tazer does. To build him up, like he does to you. And me—and the whole team, really. You keep your cards closer to your chest, that’s all.”

“I’m trying to not. Do that,” Patrick admits, a little awkward. “I think he needs me to, god. Show my feelings, or whatever.” Patrick licks his lips where they’re chapping in the cold wind.

“Well, good,” Sharpy says with a snort. “But you might want to wait until you’re not being filmed for national television.”

“You’re okay with this?” Patrick asks in a rush. “For real?”

“If it’s for real, then yes,” Sharpy says. “I’m okay with this. But you don’t need my approval, or anybody else’s. You know that, right?”

“I—” Patrick starts, but then Q’s yelling for scrimmage lines, and Patrick’s pushes off the boards to centre-ice before he can finish his thought.

~

“It’s gonna be _freezing_ ,” Jess bitches, pulling the pad thai out of Patrick’s hands.

“Hey, I wasn’t done with that,” Patrick says, trying to lean over to grab more. She holds it away away, adding a pile of noodles to her plate, and then passes the container into Jackie’s waiting hands. “Jerk,” Patrick grumbles, pulling the yellow curry to his other side, out of Jess’s reach.

“I’ve got plenty of blankets, and those little hot packs for your mitts, Jess,” their mom says, topping up her wine. “Dress right and there won’t be anything to worry about.”

“I’m coming back here if it’s too cold,” Jess warns, pointing her fork at their dad. “You are not making us sit there and lose limbs over this.”

“It’s an experience,” Erica chides. “It’s supposed to be, like, evocative of childhood.”

“Yeah, because you totally loved freezing your toes off skating outside when we were kids,” Jess says, rolling her eyes. “I can _experience_ it just fine on Patrick’s stupid-big TV, thanks.”

“What crawled up your ass and died, geez,” Erica snaps.

“I had plans this weekend,” Jess says, turning up her nose at Erica.

“With that asshole, you mean?” Erica snipes.

Patrick winces, getting ready to intervene in the latest round of Erica versus Jess, topic: Jess’s sometimes-boyfriend Clark, when the doorbell rings. “I’ve got it,” he says hastily. “Don’t kill each other.”

It’s Jonny at the door, hat in one hand and six-pack in the other.

“Hey,” Patrick says, surprised. He holds open the door and lets Jonny come in. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, I just,” Jonny starts, tossing his hat onto the bench and unwinding his scarf. “Are you busy?”

“Just with dinner,” Patrick says, shrugging. “You want some?”

“Sure,” Jonny says, passing Patrick the beer and taking off his coat. Patrick heads back down the hallway to his dining room, Jonny following him until they round the corner. “Oh, shit—” Jonny starts.

“Jonathan!” his mom says, standing up when she sees him. “This is a lovely surprise.”

“Uh, hi Mrs. Kane,” Jonny says, a little wide-eyed. He looks over at Patrick, who lifts his shoulder in response. “I forgot you guys were in town,” Jonny adds. “Sorry, I can head out.”

“Oh, come on, now,” his mom says, giving Jonny a hug and then stepping back to frown at him. “Even after what you did, you’re still family.”

Jonny’s mouth goes round in shock, and Patrick looks sharply over at his dad. His dad shakes his head minutely, shoulders coming up in a silent _I didn’t tell her, don’t ask me!_

“I, well, uh,” Jonny stutters, glancing over at Patrick, wide-eyed.

“Patrick may pretend it didn’t hurt,” his mum goes on, “but if you think I’m forgetting you eliminating our team at two Olympics in a row, you’ve got something else coming, mister.”

 _Jesus_ , Patrick thinks, unable to smother a sharp laugh as Jonny practically sags in relief next to him.

“Well, I think we can just not talk about it, then,” Jonny says, a little strangled. He scratches at the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “But really, I can head out, I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Please do interrupt,” calls Jess, leaning back in her chair. “We could use a topic-change, trust me.”

His mom takes the beer from Patrick’s hands. “Pull up a chair, Jon. Do you want one of these, or some of the wine?”

“Wine’s fine if it’s open,” Jonny relents, shooting Patrick another apologetic glance.

“I’ll get you a glass, then,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen.

~

Jonny ends up beside his dad, across from Patrick. His dad plays it cool and doesn’t start grilling Jonny on his intentions, and Jess makes a few snide comments, but nothing that seems to clue in anybody else at the table. Patrick figures that answers his question about if everybody knows, at the very least.

Jonny relaxes once it becomes clear he’s not about to face an inquisition, asking Patrick’s sisters about their jobs and friends and classes. Jonny’s pretty good at small-talk, when he puts his mind to it, and he’s had enough conversations with Patrick’s family over the years that it’s not put-on. He’s past the days of being too narrowly-focused on the game to remember their names, at least. Patrick’s _definitely_ not letting him date any of them, though. He grins down at his plate at the thought of it.

He catches Erica giving him a funny look on his right. “What?” he says, grabbing the last spring roll and chomping down on half of it in one go.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says around the mouthful, swallowing too quickly. “Just, I dunno.”

“You’re all smiling and stuff,” she says, thoughtful.

“I can’t be happy to see you guys?” he asks.

She snorts. “Not like this. Are you getting laid or something?”

“Erica!” Patrick hisses, glancing around. His dad, Jackie, and Jonny are having a loud discussion about Brazil’s readiness for the Summer Olympics, weirdly, and Jess has disappeared to text her not-boyfriend. His mom is three glasses in and watching the table with a look of deep, rosy-cheeked satisfaction.

“You _are_!” she says, sounding shocked. She glances over at the table, and Patrick winces as her eyes land on Jonny. “Holy shit, are you—”

“I’m _not_ ,” he interrupts her, turning in to her to whisper. “Trust me on this, I’m definitely not getting laid.”

She looks back at him, eyes narrowed. “But…?” she says, tilting her head at Jonny pointedly.

“But, look,” he says, flushing under her gaze. “I’ll tell you if that changes, okay?”

“Hmph,” she says, reaching out to poke him in the ribs. “You better, or I’m gonna start asking awkward questions in front of mom.”

“Yes dear?” their mom says, blinking over at them.

“Nothing, mom,” Erica says, rolling her eyes. “For _now_.”

~

Jonny helps Patrick clear the table while his family convenes in his living room, after dinner. Well, Patrick probably would have left everything where it was, but Jonny offered to help and he couldn’t exactly let him do it alone, so. They get the table cleared off and Jonny insists on putting the dishes in the dishwasher, the over-polite fuck.

“You leave your _own_ dishes on the counter for your maid service,” Patrick grumbles, scraping off a plate and passing it over.

“Not when I have _company_ ,” Jonny says snottily. He sticks out his tongue when Patrick makes a face at him.

“They’re my family, not company!” Patrick protests.

Jonny’s smile drops away and he frowns down at the glasses he’s picked up. “Sorry about that, I really didn’t mean to crash your evening.”

“Whatever,” Patrick says dismissively. “You’re basically family, so.” Jonny bites his lip, arranging the glasses in the top shelf of the dishwasher. Patrick frowns at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Jonny sighs, just a little exhale, and he turns to lean against the counter on the other side of the dishwasher from Patrick. “I dunno—it’s stupid.”

“Probably,” Patrick says.

Jonny huffs a laugh and scrapes a hand through his hair. “I just—you were ignoring me today?” he says. “It felt like you didn’t want to talk to me. Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” Patrick says, startled. He puts down a next plate by the sink. “I wasn’t—nothing’s wrong, I just… you said you wanted some time? I was trying to do that, give you some space to think.”

“Oh,” Jonny echoes, glancing down. “I don’t—I need time, to figure out, you know.” He glances at the entrance to the kitchen, and then back at Patrick, who’s come halfway around the dishwasher without realizing it. “If I can, with you. But I don’t want _space_.”

Patrick hesitates, biting down on his lip. “Okay,” he says hesitantly. He thinks about what Sharpy said, at the rink today. “You don’t want me to pretend? That I don’t want this?” He takes another step, until he’s within arm’s length of Jonny. “That I don’t want you.”

Jonny looks up, shaking his head. “No. Maybe that’s not fair—” He cuts off, a light flush across his cheeks. Patrick wants to rub his thumbs across it. He folds his hands closed by his sides, instead. “I’m sorry I’m—”

“Hey,” Patrick says, cutting him off. “It’s cool. I thought you’d want it, but if not, I can just…” he swallows, feeling his own cheeks go pink. “Not give you space,” he finishes, lamely.

Jonny pushes up off the counter, until he’s right up in Patrick’s own space. His hand comes up to Patrick’s hip, a warm and heavy pressure as he squeezes tight. “Thanks,” Jonny says. “I—”

“Patty, I can’t find—woah,” Erica says, coming to a halt three steps into the kitchen. It takes pretty much everything Patrick has not to pull away, but he doesn’t, just turns his head and feels Jonny’s fingers twitch against his hip. Erica looks at between them, and then raises an eyebrow, but she just holds up two Wiimotes and says. “They’re dead, I can’t find your chargers.”

“Those ones use batteries,” Patrick says. “I think I have some—”

“Here, Erica,” Jonny says, pushing past him to pull open one of Patrick’s junk drawers in the island. “Double A’s?”

“Yep,” she says, popper her p’s and holding out a hand. “You guys coming?”

“You can have your brother back,” Jonny says with a grin, passing her a pack. “I’ve gotta head out, but enjoy the game, yeah?”

“Sure,” she says. “Beat Crosby for us.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

He leaves the two of them in the kitchen, the coward, but Erica just gives him a look that says Patrick owes her a trip to a remote island in the tropics and heads back to the living room. Patrick sighs and goes to grab himself a bottle of water out of the fridge before joining them. Jonny might not want space, but this limbo is gonna do Patrick in, or at the very least lead to some epically stupid decisions on his part.

~

_Duuuuuude._

Patrick stares down at TJ’s text. _What?_ he sends back. He’s still in bed; it’s not quite nine and the team’s Olympians were ordered to stay home for morning skate.

_He is really fucked up about this._

Patrick frowns and rolls onto his stomach so he can text with both thumbs. _He’s talking to you?_

 _Well, he’s yelling at me,_ TJ texts and Patrick huffs a laugh. _It’s cool, I yelled back. We get each other like that._

 _Glad somebody gets him_ , Patrick texts back.

_Don’t be jealous, it’s not a good look on you._

Patrick groans and hits the call button, rolling back over and waiting until TJ picks up. “I’m not jealous, _dude_ ,” he says.

“I call it like I see it, bro,” TJ says, too sunny. “You’re an idiot. The only reason he’s talking to me is because he’s too freaked out about how into you he is to talk to _you_.”

“God,” Patrick says with a groan, pressing his hand over his eyes. “The last—TJ, the _last_ thing I wanted to have happen with all this was to fuck up our friendship, okay?”

“Sorry,” TJ says unsympathetically. “Pretty sure you went and made this not-a-friendship.”

“So we’re just fucked, then,” Patrick says, resigned.

“Eh,” TJ says. “You’re not just friends anymore, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have each other’s back.  It’s just different now.”

“Is that what you told Jonny?” Patrick asks, skeptical.

“Nah, I told him to open his beady little eyes and realize this isn’t six years ago,” TJ says, voice cracking on a yawn. “Not exactly my favorite way to start the day, but whatevs.”

“Sounds like you were very helpful, thanks,” Patrick says, snide.

TJ makes a protesting noise. “I’m not the middleman here.”

“You kind of are,” Patrick says. “This phone call is not helping your case.”

“Hey, you called me,” TJ protests.

“Whatever,” Patrick says with a yawn. “The point is, three months ago I was too fucked up to notice that this was fucking him up, and now he doesn’t trust me even though I’ve figured shit out.”

“Tough break, man,” TJ says sympathetically. “He’ll get there, though.”

“You think?” Patrick says, wincing at the desperation in his tone. “He said he just needs _time_ , but what if he’s never gonna be okay with dating a guy again? It’s been _six years_. That’s a lot of time.”

“Sure,” TJ says. “But I told you, he spent most of it pretending things had gone down a lot differently than they had. I don’t think he’s ever actually tried to move on, just figured girls were safe and ignored the rest of it.”

“And now?” Patrick asks.

“Well, he’s thinking about it,” TJ says. “I’m not gonna actually tell you what he said, right? But he’s definitely thinking about it.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a sigh. He tilts his head back on the pillows, staring blankly up at his ceiling.

“Keep your chin up, bro,” TJ says. “And kick Crosby’s ass for us.”

~

“Hey,” Patrick says, when Jonny answers his phone, a couple hours later. “Can you give me a ride in today?”

“Sure,” Jonny says, sounding surprised.

“My parents can take my car in,” Patrick explains, sinking back into his couch. “Park in staff parking instead of with the rest of the crowd.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Jonny says warmly. “That’s a good idea. Quarter to four okay?”

“Yep,” Patrick says, glancing over at where his mom is making charade gestures at him. _What?_ He mouths, and she throws up her hands.

“Tell him to come _up_ , Patrick,” she says. “I don’t want any of that honking at the door.”

“This isn’t a playdate,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “And I live on the _thirteenth_ floor.”

“What?” Jonny says, confused.

Patrick laughs. “My mom has this thing. She hated when other kids’ parents would sit out in their car when they picked them up from our house, instead of coming up to the door and knocking—”

“—like a civilized person.” his mom interjects.

“Like a civilized person,” Patrick repeats for Jonny. “So you better come up.”

“Alright then,” Jonny says, voice deep with amusement. “I’ll see you then.”

Patrick hangs up, and gives his mom a look. “What’s this about?”

She raises her eyebrows, expression a little chiding. “Do you have something to tell me?”

“Uh, no?” Patrick tries. She frowns, and he winces. “Did dad talk to you?”

“He might have,” she says tensely. “You know I don’t like being kept out of the loop on these things, Patrick.”

“I didn’t tell him _not_ to tell you,” Patrick protests, putting his phone down and sliding down his couch until he’s next to her. “I figured he had.”

“Well, he didn’t, and I’m a little embarrassed about last night,” his mom says, voice wavering a little. “If I’d known that you and Jonathan—”

“We’re not,” Patrick says. “Mom, it’s—I wasn’t not telling you, I swear. It’s just complicated.”

“Like you being gay was complicated?” she says, sharp. “And thinking you just shouldn’t _tell_ me for years and years?” Patrick bites his lip, looking away, and she slumps a little next to him. “Oh, Patrick—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Patrick shrugs stiffly. “You can mean it, I’d get it.”

“No, that’s not fair of me,” his mom says, sounding tired. “I’m just—it was upsetting to me that I didn’t notice how unhappy you were, all these years. With your girlfriends, with everything. I thought I knew you better than that, but it turns out I hardly knew you at all.”

“Mom—”

She takes his cheek in her hand, turning his head towards her. Patrick blinks, trying to meet her eyes. “I’m your mother, it’s my job to make sure my children are happy, and you weren’t. I just feel like I missed so much of you.”

“ _Mom,_ ” Patrick says, reaching up to grab hold of her hand. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t miss it, or anything—or if you did, it’s only because I worked so hard to hide it.”

“From us?” she asks, her hand tight on his. “Because you afraid of what I would say? Of what your father would say?”

Patrick shakes his head. “No, not—it wasn’t that simple. I hid from myself.” He dips his head, looking at where her fingers are squeezing tight to his, trying to figure out how to explain something that’s taken him years to work through, let alone put into words. “When I started figuring this out,” he starts slowly, eyes still downcast. “About me, it always seemed possible for other people to be gay, because they weren’t….” He looks up, meeting his mom’s fraught gaze. “They weren’t hockey players, they weren’t in the NHL, they weren’t a celebrity, they weren’t small for a player, they weren’t  _me_.”

“Patrick—“ his mom says, but Patrick shakes his head, pressing his free hand flat to his thigh to keep it from trembling. He’s sure his mom can feel the tremors in the one she’s holding onto.

“It took me a long time to see that I could be all those things, and gay, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world.” He exhales, watching his mom’s mouth tighten.

“I wish I could have helped you. I wish I’d _known_ ,” she says, frustrated. “I want you to succeed, Patrick, but more than that, I want you to be happy.”

Patrick takes a breath and gives her a weak smile. “I’m happy now.”

“Are you?” she says, looking at him shrewdly. “Even though it’s _complicated_?”

Patrick nods, swallowing. “Yeah. It’s still—I don’t know what it is, yet. And even if it doesn’t work, with Jonny, it’s still gonna be okay. I’m not pretending, anymore.” He shakes his head, squeezing her hand tight. “Not to you, not to anybody. This is all of me, okay?”

“Oh, Patrick,” his mom says, tugging him in to wrap an arm around his shoulder and hug him tight. “I want to believe you, I really do.”

“You can, I promise,” Patrick says, hugging her back.

They sit together for a minute, before his mom pulls away, wiping carefully at the dampness underneath her eyes.

“Alright then,” she says, straightening her shoulders and then standing up. “Would you like some lunch?”

“Yes, please,” Patrick says. He leans back in the couch as she leaves, closing his eyes. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, before getting up and following her into the kitchen.

~

“Your mom knows, doesn’t she?” Jonny asks, fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel.

“Yeah, my dad told her,” Patrick says with a sigh.

Jonny shoots him a look. “Your _dad_ knows?”

“And Jess. And Erica, obviously,” Patrick says.

“Jesus,” Jonny says. “That’s—why?”

Patrick shrugs, sinking low in his seat and watching the traffic. “Honestly?”

“Of course,” Jonny says, sounding confused.

“I’m tired of hiding,” Patrick says, shutting his eyes. “I did it for so fucking long, about liking guys. I just can’t do it anymore, not even about how I feel about one guy in particular.” He huffs a small laugh, eyes still closed against whatever look Jonny might be giving him. “I used to be able to lie about this so easily, to everyone. Now it’s like people take one look at me, and know everything.” Jonny’s silent beside him. Patrick finally opens his eyes and looks over at him. “What?” he says.

“I didn’t,” Jonny says quietly. “Know it.”

“You didn’t ask,” Patrick points out.

“I guess not,” Jonny says, lapsing back into silence while they drive to the stadium. It’s a quick trip, delayed only by the secure entrance to the staff parking lot. This time, it’s Jonny who stops Patrick from getting out of the car with a hand on his arm.

“How do you feel?” he asks, gaze intent.

Patrick blinks, twisting back to face him. “You know how I feel.”

Jonny shrugs. “I don’t get why you’re putting up with this, really. With me, being—”

“Because I’m in love with you, asshole,” Patrick interrupts.

Jonny inhales, turning away to sit back in his seat. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, shaky with the adrenaline of saying the words. Jonny doesn’t move, just squeezes his hands pointlessly to the steering wheel. “I, shit.” Patrick opens his door. “Forget about it,” he says. “We’re gonna be late.”

~

The next couple hours are packed with meetings and prep and the team meal. Patrick lets himself get swept up in the excitement of the game. He shoves down on wondering if Jonny’s going to freak out, or clam up again, or if he just doesn’t feel the same way, and talks to Mike and Troy and plays two-touch. Jonny does the same, as far as Patrick can stand to watch. When Patrick gets eliminated, he watches in confusion as Jonny flubs an easy trap and steps out of the circle after him.

“Pat,” Jonny says, but Shawzy’s coming too, knocking up against Patrick’s shoulder and shouting about the snow. Whatever Jonny’s wanting to say, it’ll have to wait until after the game.

~

Except when they get out on the blustery rink for a warm-up that takes way too long, Jonny skates up him by the half boards while the snow is being cleared.

“Got a minute?” Jonny asks when he breaks smoothly beside him.

“So says the weather,” Patrick says with a tight grin, aware of the cameras on them. “Aren’t you mic’d up?” he adds cautiously.

“Oh,” Jonny says, glancing down. He pulls off his gloves and sets them on the boards, before twisting to tug out the mic pack and turn it off. “Better?”

Patrick blinks. “Uh—”

“I’m being an idiot,” Jonny says.

“Well, yeah,” Patrick says, flashing a weak grin. “But I’m used to that.”

Jonny rolls his eyes, mouth working like he’s resisting a smile. “No, I mean—I trust you. I’ve always trusted you, or I never would have suggested we do anything in the first place. Just because it became more, doesn’t mean that’s changed.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, lost for words. “Oh, that’s—“

“I want to do this,” Jonny says.

“Are you sure?” Patrick asks, fingers curling tight in his gloves. “It’s only been—you said you needed time.”

Jonny shakes his head. “Fuck time, I _know_ you,” he says. “And you know me, and if I let what happened then keep me from doing this, now, then…”

“Then what?” Patrick prods.

Jonny’s mouth twists into a self-deprecating smile. “Then I’m letting him fuck me over, all over again.”

Patrick lets out a sharp breath, reaching out to press his glove against Jonny’s bare hand where he’s gripping the boards beside them. “That’s—I can wait,” Patrick says. “You don’t have to worry that I’m gonna lose interest, or something.” He shoots Jonny a rueful look. “I don’t see that happening.”

Jonny makes a displeased noise, sliding a few inches closer. Patrick has to tilt his head, just a little, to meet Jonny’s eyes. They’re warm, crinkling up in the corners as a smile spreads across Jonny’s face. “What?” Jonny says, trying for and missing deadpan by a mile. “Do you want me to tell you my dick thinks you’re pretty?”

Patrick laughs, startled. “Douche,” he says, whacking Jonny’s skates with his stick. Jonny catches hold of it and twists in, trapping Patrick between his body and the boards. It’d look like their normal roughhousing, from a distance, but it feels—Patrick takes a quick breath and looks up at Jonny.

“Because I can,” Jonny says, ducking to keep the words quiet between them. “All of me thinks you’re pretty. But especially my dick.”

“You have the worst timing,” Patrick breathes out, bracing both hands on his stick to cross-check Jonny away and get some room to breathe.

“How so?” Jonny asks.

Patrick looks at him in disbelief. “Because we’ve got a _game_?” Patrick says. “And if we win, you know we’ll be going out with the team, and that’s gonna make it hard for me to get what I want.”

“What do you want, exactly?” Jonny says. He’s smirking at Patrick, winding him up on purpose, the asshole.

Patrick smirks back, letting his tongue dart out to slide along his lower lip. He waits until Jonny’s gaze drops, and then says, “I was planning on fucking you into the mattress, actually.” Jonny’s eyes flick back up, red lips parted, and Patrick ducks his head, grinning. “But that’ll just have to wait, I guess.”

Jonny looks away, out at the snowy rink. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but Patrick can see him swallow compulsively. “Well,” Jonny says, finally. “Maybe we won’t win.”

Patrick laughs. Jonny turns to smile at him, broad and open and easy, and Patrick’s heart swoops. “Hell no,” Patrick says. “I need to grind Crosby _down_. Everything else can wait.”

“You know there are more Americans on the Pens than Canadians,” Jonny says, skeptical. “And like, three of us here.”

Patrick waves his hand. “Technicalities,” he says. “He’s the face of Canadian hockey, it’s symbolic, man.”

Jonny makes a displeased sound. “He didn’t even score the golden goal,” he grumbles, all put-on petulance and barely concealed laughter.

“Sorry, babe,” Patrick says, faux-sympathetic. “Nobody’s gonna remember _that_. Maybe you can show him who’s better tonight.”

Jonny cracks, laughing for real and shaking his head. “Fine. But if I pot one, you better follow-through. Drinks or no drinks.”

“Mm,” Patrick says, non-committal. Sharpy and Bicks are skating over to them, and he leans back against the boards, turning his head to look at Jonny and throw one more shot at him. “If you’re good.”

“Fucker,” Jonny says, elbowing him in the gap below his pads.

“Watch the pigtail pulling, boys,” Bicks says with a broad grin. Sharpy makes a face beside him, unseen by Bicks, and Patrick has to smother his laughter in his snow-damp glove. “What’d I say?” Bicks asks, glancing at the expressions on the faces of the three of them.

Sharpy gives Patrick the stink-eye, which only makes Patrick laugh harder, falling against Jonny’s side.

~

The game, the _game_. It’s a thing of beauty, even if Patrick gets two more posts for his trouble. The snow is ridiculous and stickhandling is pretty much impossible. Watching Jonny tear up the ice anyway, running the slow-footed Penguins into the ground and throwing himself into his team with such open-faced joy—god. Patrick doesn’t know how he’s going to keep his hands off Jonny in the locker-room, let alone during what’s sure to be a raucous celebration afterwards.

Jonny gets the belt, making some straight-faced crack about never having got it before, and Patrick manages to keep both his hands and stupid smile to himself all the way to Roof. Jonny’s spreading the love around the team from the start of the night, ruffling Leds’ hair and stealing Sharpy’s beer and slinging his arm around Bick’s shoulder, so Patrick lets Chaunette and Shawzy drag him out to the dance floor.

It occurs to him after a couple shifts of the beat that this is the first time he’s been dancing in a straight club since coming out. He’s always had a love-hate relationship with clubbing—he loves the music and the movement and the freedom of getting drunk enough not to care how stupid you look dancing. It’s the part where the girls would look at him expectantly, and the times when he’d follow them home out of fucked-up obligation to live up to his status as pro athlete, that always took away from it. He’s not sure if the girl who’s slung her arms around his shoulders knows who he is, but not wondering if he should hook up with her, this time, is enough to let him sink into it and grin back and move with her without that old worry clawing at the back of his mind.

Still, he finds himself working his way through the crowded club to get back to Jonny sooner rather than later. Jonny’s standing by their big round booth, waving his beer-free hand in demonstration of what Patrick thinks is his sneaky five-hole against Fleury. When Patrick comes up beside him, he grins widely and wraps his arm around Patrick’s shoulder to pull him into his side.

“Drink?” Jonny says in his ear.

“Sure,” Patrick says with a nod, letting Jonny tug him down into the booth. Hammer and Elina—looking huge but content, tucked under her husband’s protective arm—shift down to give them some space. Jonny lets his arm slide down to curve around Patrick’s far hip anyway, like Patrick’s in danger of falling off. Patrick shoots him a look, but Jonny’s leaning over Hammer to say something to Elina that Patrick can’t hear, so he shrugs and settles into the curve of Jonny’s arm.

Sharpy waggles his eyebrows at them and pulls over a half-full pitcher, pouring a heady pint into an empty glass for Patrick, and then leans across the table.

“Don’t break anything,” he says loudly. There’s a twitch in his cheek, though, and Patrick just raises his glass in silent salute.

Jonny turns back, knee knocking into Kaner’s. “Who’s breaking what?” he asks.

“Us,” Patrick says, shifting his shoulder against Jonny’s in a little shrug. “Each other, potentially.”

Jonny glances over at Sharpy, who tilts his head at the other guys at the table. “We know what we’re doing,” Jonny says. He shifts away, though, pulling his arm back and using it to steal Patrick’s beer.

“Hey,” Patrick protests. His stomach is tight, and his grip on his cool, damp glass feels tenuous as he pries it out of Jonny’s hand and takes a long swallow of his own.

Maybe he shouldn’t—they’ve got fans watching them, like always, with cameraphones and twitter accounts. And whatever Steeger insinuates, thus far they’ve kept this away from everybody on the team but Sharpy. It’s still so _new_ , and maybe it’d be smarter not to mess with the balance of the thing yet. It could still go sour, or Jonny could change his mind, or—

But at the end of it, the all Patrick can think of is how done he is with hiding, and how much he wants Jonny to not just _trust_ him, but to believe wholeheartedly that Patrick’s wants him for something more than a clandestine fuck. It makes it easy, easier than anything’s been between them in months, to reach across and slide his palm over Jonny’s chest, up to grip his shoulder, and pull him back towards Patrick.

Jonny resists, tilting his head to frown at Patrick. “What?”

“Just—” Patrick says, words caught in his mouth. Instead, he ducks in and kisses Jonny, closemouthed but firm, palm sliding up Jonny’s neck to hold him in place. It isn’t needed; Jonny finds Patrick’s jaw with his own hand, tilting him just right to turn the kiss from chaste to something wet and dirty. A groan catches in Patrick’s throat as Jonny’s tongue licks against his. His fingers dig into the muscle of Jonny’s neck, thumb pressing into the hollow of Jonny’s throat.

He leaves his hand where it is when they pull apart. Patrick’s eyes have fallen shut without him realizing it, and even the low club lighting feels too bright when he opens them again. Jonny’s watching him, lips slick and still parted. Patrick feels Jonny’s pulse under his palm, thudding in steady beats that are only a little fast. Jonny lets go of Patrick’s jaw, but he fits his arm in behind Patrick again when he sits back, turning into place again with a flushed, unreadable expression on his face.

Patrick coughs and lets go, bringing his hand from Jonny’s neck to his own to tug nervously at his hair as he glances around the table. Elina’s leaning over Hammer to poke Jonny in the ribs with a wide, delighted grin on her face—Hammer is busy rolling his eyes at her and saying something dry in Swedish. Oduya meets Patrick’s eyes and gives him a single nod. Antti’s wide-eyed and Crow absolutely expressionless, per usual—Saader’s watching Jonny with a thoughtful look on his face, and Leds is staring steadily at the table, but that’s no great surprise. When he finally looks at Sharpy, Sharpy just raises his glass in silent salute and then downs the last third in one go.

“Why so serious?” Shawzy asks, appearing at Patrick’s shoulder with Chaunette on one arm and a girl Patrick recognizes as one of her good friends—Lacy? Lucy?—on his other. “Did somebody die?”

Sharpy grins. “Only our collective innocence.”

“Fuck you,” Jonny says, stealing Patrick’s beer again and slouching more deeply into the bench. Patrick lets himself settle into Jonny’s side, cheeks still a little hot.

“They’re banging,” Elina says with a grin, pointing at the two of them.

Chaunette goes wide-eyed and punches Patrick in the shoulder. “No way!”

“Ow,” Patrick says in fake—well, not that fake, this girl lives with Shawzy and punches like it, too—pain. “Thanks Elina.”

“Since when?” Shawzy demands, making Sharpy shove over so they can fit in the booth, Lucy and then Shawzy with Chaunette perched on his knee. “How did I not know this?”

“Nobody did,” Saader says, still looking contemplative.

“You mean everybody did,” Hammer says archly. “As if it wasn’t obvious.”

 “It was _not,_ ” Shawzy protests. “You’ve totally been doing other dudes for months!”

“Since when?” Patrick says raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, uh,” Shawzy says, waving a hand and whacking Chaunette in the arm as he thinks. “That club in Vegas! You left to hook up with—” he cuts himself off, frowning at Patrick, and then Jonny. “Woah.”

“Oh,” says Crow, sliding his glass between his hands. “That’s why you left early,” he says to Jonny.

“Right,” Jonny says, finishing off Patrick’s beer and then shoving him out of the bench. “And that’s why we’re leaving now. Night, boys. Girls.”

“Have a good night,” Elina says with a smirk.

They make it out into the night air, frigid against the sweat of the club on Patrick’s skin. At the curb, Patrick catches Jonny’s wrist and tugs him round to face him, looking up at the angles of his face, drawn starkly in the yellow of the streetlights.

“Last chance to back out,” Patrick says, corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile.

Jonny twists his wrist in Patrick’s grasp to lace their fingers together, and brings his other hand up to press his thumb into the dimple in Patrick’s cheek. Patrick sinks into the kiss that follows, sneaking his cold fingers into Jonny’s open coat to press against his ribs. When Jonny breaks the kiss, he keeps his forehead pressed to Patrick’s as he says, a quiet confession, “That was weeks ago, for me.”

Patrick nods, fingers twisting in the soft fabric of Jonny’s shirt, leaving his hand there as he turns to hail a cab. Leaning against Jonny’s warmth, sense memories of the last time they left a club together rush up. Patrick thinks of all the ways it was different, just a few weeks back—the warmth of the desert, the drunken uncertainty of everything but the need to _touch_ , to be closer to Jonny, Jonny’s fierce silence and then harsh neediness as Patrick tried to take everything that wasn’t _his._ Patrick’s hard in his slacks this time, too, but the off-kilter desperation is gone, and what’s left is the rightness of it, something Patrick’s sure of down to his bones.

~

“God damn,” Patrick groans, tilting his head back against the elevator wall. Jonny’s mouth presses warm and wet along the side of his neck, his fingers tugging the collar of Patrick’s shirt aside so he can lick at his collarbone. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Patrick says, palming Jonny’s ass and trying to pull him closer. “But I’m really glad your parents couldn’t come down.”

Jonny lets Patrick pull him flush, trapping Patrick between his thighs as he presses in. “You planning on making me loud?” Jonny says, low against Patrick’s ear. Patrick’s hips jerk, the hard line of his dick pressing against Jonny’s.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes out, grinding up. “You’re so—”

The elevator slows to a halt and Jonny pulls away to head down the hall. Patrick can’t keep his hands away as Jonny digs out the keys, spreading them over Jonny’s shoulder blades and smoothing down to the small of his back. Jonny stills, and then shivers when Patrick curves a palm over one broad cheek, fingers pressing over the seam of his pants.

“Give me a moment here,” Jonny says, pissy sounding.

Patrick laughs, pressing his forehead to the back of Jonny’s neck, but he puts both hands politely on Jonny’s hips.

When they trip through the door together, Patrick’s not surprised to be pushed back up against it. Jonny leans on his elbows on either side of Patrick’s head, crowding Patrick in with his body but not quite pressing in. “Hey,” Jonny says quietly, expression lost in the dimness of the unlit hallway.

Patrick slides his hands up under the edge of Jonny’s shirt, smoothing over his abs and then wrapping around to pull him in, his legs tucked in between Jonny’s. “Hey,” Patrick says back. “Sup.”

Jonny’s laugh ghosts across his lips, and the soft brush of Jonny’s own follows. “Not much,” Jonny says.

“Freaking out a bit?” Patrick asks, rubbing his fingertips into the thick muscle along Jonny’s spine.

“No,” Jonny says firmly. He slides his nose against Patrick’s cheek as he shakes his head once. “Just thinking.”

“About?” Patrick asks, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Jonny’s jaw.

“About the first time,” Jonny says, tilting his chin as Patrick presses dry kisses along the corded muscle of his neck. “ _Your_ first time.”

Patrick turns his head to press a kiss to Jonny’s bicep, flexed beside his head. “Wasn’t a virgin,” Patrick says, letting his teeth scrape against skin. Jonny shivers, hips pushing into Patrick’s once before he stills again.

“No, I know,” Jonny says. “It was just—” He pushes off the door, bringing his hands down to rest on Patrick’s shoulders instead. “It was already different, then. Better. For me, I mean, as well.”

“Than it was with Ethan?” Patrick asks, hesitant.

Jonny nods, pulling away. Patrick inhales—maybe he shouldn’t have brought him up—but Jonny finds Patrick’s hand and takes it in his own, pulling him down the hallway towards his bedroom. Jonny lets go when they get there, flicking on the bedside lamp before reaching back to pull at the collar of his t-shirt. Patrick’s caught in the doorway, watching the ripple of muscle in Jonny’s back as he pulls his shirt over his head.

“How was it different?” Patrick asks, maybe unwisely but he wants to _know_.

Jonny turns, dropping his shirt to the floor and bending down to unlace his shoes. “It—it was supposed to be about you. _For_ you,” Jonny says, quiet but steady. He stands back up and kicks out of his shoes, hands going to his belt. “But it felt like—when you got me off, with your fingers, it felt like it was about me, too.”

 “Jonny,” Patrick says, a little helpless. Jonny’s tongue darts out to press against his lower lip as he undoes his pants, sliding the belt out through the loops and then flicking open his fly. “I never meant—I didn’t want to _use_ you.”

“Yeah well,” Jonny says, lips quirking up into a smile that Patrick knows too well as the sign of an incoming, _terrible_ joke. “I was wide open and asking for the puck.”

“Jesus,” Patrick says with a groan, hands covering his face while he laughs. “You asshole. I mean, fuck. Maybe I didn’t know it then, but it was always about you, as much as it was about me.”

“It’s okay if it wasn’t,” Jonny says, sobering up. “Back when we started, it didn’t have to be some big thing.” He pushes his pants and boxers over his hips and to the floor, toeing off his socks.

Patrick bites down on his lip, looking at Jonny, standing naked and strong and steady beside the bed. Patrick wants to reach out and touch, and hold on, and not have to let go. He _can_ , now, and it makes the three feet between them seem like overtime in the Stanley Cup final; one perfect play away from victory, one misstep away from crushing defeat.

Patrick’s always been good at closing it out.

“It wasn’t,” he says, voice rough as he steps in. “I wanted to have sex, with a man, and you offered, so I said yes.” Jonny nods, accepting, and Patrick reaches up to cup his hip. “But you said you never would have done it if you hadn’t trusted me, and that’s true for me, too.”

“Yeah?” Jonny says, expression a little wary.

Patrick rubs his thumb into the jut of Jonny’s hip bone and smiles at him. “Twenty-five years of being too scared to let myself have what I really wanted,” he says with a dry laugh. “Saying yes to you?” He shakes his head. “Easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Jonny’s gaze softens, and Patrick tilts his chin up to meet him in a slow, wet kiss. It’s perfect, finally being able to let go and kiss Jonny as deeply as Patrick always wants to, this time without the excuse of too much booze coursing through his veins. It’s decadent, too, being able to slide his hands across Jonny’s smooth nakedness while Jonny’s twists his hands into Patrick’s clothes. Patrick drags his thumbs over Jonny’s nipples, slides his palms down Jonny’s arms, trails his fingers up Jonny’s thighs until he’s cupping Jonny’s ass.

Jonny groans into his mouth, one hand curled around Patrick’s neck, under his collar, the other pulling the hem of Patrick’s shirt loose from his slacks. “C’mon,” Jonny says against Patrick’s lips. “You gonna do it or what?”

Patrick squeezes both hands, grinning as Jonny pulls his mouth away and tilts his head back, pushing his dick against Patrick’s hip. Patrick licks up Jonny’s neck and bites at his chin. “Am I gonna do what?” he asks.

Jonny lets go of Patrick’s shirt and palms the front of his pants instead, looking back down to watch as Patrick’s mouth drops open in a gasp. Jonny’s fingers trace the head of Patrick’s dick where it’s pressed tight against the fabric of his pants. Jonny’s expression is hot and intent as he teases Patrick’s cock, firm slides of nothing but fingertip that leave Patrick shivering.

“You want me to ask?” Jonny asks, when Patrick just flexes his fingers into the thick muscle of Jonny’s ass. “D’you want me to beg you to fuck me? Tell you how much I want this—” he presses the heel of his palm into Patrick’s dick, sliding firmly from root to tip, “—inside me?”

“Uhh,” Patrick says, tongue thick in his mouth as Jonny keeps palming him firmly. He’d forgotten how good Jonny could be with words—how good he _used to be,_ shit. He hadn’t even noticed how Jonny got quieter and quieter as things went on.

“Because I do,” Jonny says, words rumbling low in his chest. He curls his thumb around the head of Patrick’s cock and squeezes tight. “I’d never had anything in me, before this. Now I can’t stop thinking about how good I felt with your dick filling me up, making me crazy, making me _come_.”

“Jesus, Jonny,” Patrick groans, dick jerking under Jonny’s grip. He lets go of Jonny and pushes Jonny’s hand away, bringing his hand up to rub at his own jaw as he breathes unsteadily. Jonny smirks at him, naked and gorgeous and confident in how much Patrick wants everything he’s offering.

Jonny’s never wondered if Patrick wants his body, not once. The rest of him—

“I’ll get there,” Patrick says, finding his voice. “Trust me.”

~

Patrick lays Jonny out on his bed, shedding his dress shirt and shoes and socks but leaving the rest of his clothes on. He takes his time, touching Jonny with his hands and mouth until Jonny’s panting under him, shivering with each new sliver of skin Patrick finds. It’s not like the first time, when Patrick was touching Jonny because he needed to see how it felt—this time Patrick can hardly think of his own hard-on, thick in his pants. Every time he finds a spot that makes Jonny shudder, he leans over to catch Jonny’s moans with his lips, angling his chin towards Patrick to deepen every kiss until Patrick pulls away to start all over again.

By the time Patrick’s got Jonny curled onto his side, Jonny’s flushed and trembling continuously, small whines catching in his throat as Patrick licks a wet trail down his spine. “Pat,” Jonny groans, when Patrick scrapes his nails up the inside of Jonny’s thigh.

Patrick leans up and kisses Jonny’s cheek. “Hold on.”

“Just _do_ it,” Jonny says.

“Soon,” Patrick promises. “Just let me do this.” He slides down to the foot of the bed, fingers prying Jonny’s cheeks apart so he can lean in and lick at Jonny’s hole.

“Shit,” Jonny says with a gasp. “Shit, Pat—”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, a little lightheaded. He rolls away to peel off his undershirt and shuck off his pants, too hot in his clothes. Jonny leans up to watch him, eyes wide and dark, and then sinks back to the bed when Patrick pushes on his hip and presses in close. Jonny pulls up a knee to open himself up for Patrick, and Patrick laps out gently, stroking Jonny’s hole with his tongue. He cups Jonny balls between his legs while he licks him, the taste of salt sharp on his tongue, and curls his thumb to press into Jonny’s perineum.

Jonny’s swearing at him by the time Patrick’s working a spit-slicked pair of fingers in under his mouth. Jonny opens around their thick tips, muscles twitching and relaxing under Patrick’s tongue. Patrick works him open, shallow thrusts of his fingers to soften Jonny up, and Jonny’s muffled groans are coming non-stop by the time Patrick’s licking in alongside three fingers.

He’s so focused on the feel and taste of Jonny’s stretched hole under his tongue that the slide of Jonny’s hand in his hair makes him start. He tips his head back to look up to where Jonny’s pushed up on an arm, staring down at him. His fingers twist into Patrick’s curls.

“Fuck me,” he says, voice all gravel. “Please.”

Patrick pulls his fingers out. “Yeah?” he says, cheeks dimpling up in a grin. He sucks a finger into his mouth, and then pushes it back inside Jonny, deep this time, deep enough to curl in and press against Jonny’s prostate and watch as Jonny shudders above him.

“God, I love that,” Patrick breathes, fingering Jonny until Jonny’s shaking, fingers twitching in Patrick’s hair. He leans in to press a kiss to the cheek of Jonny’s ass and then pulls out, stretching up to grab the lube. He shucks his boxers and slicks up his dick, biting down on his lower lip at the relief of finally touching himself while Jonny reaches up and grabs a pillow, lifting his hips to tuck it under his ass and part his knees.

“Like this,” Jonny says, rubbing Patrick’s side and then giving him a little push.

“God,” Patrick says. He laughs as he crawls between Jonny’s legs. “You’re amazing.”

Jonny smiles at him—the uncertainty in it makes Patrick’s heart hurt. He leans up Jonny’s body to press his mouth to Jonny’s chest as he pushes back in with two, then three fingers.

“You set?” Patrick asks, sitting back up and curling a hand under Jonny’s left knee.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jonny says.

Patrick pushes in, slow against the tight pressure on his dick, watching Jonny’s face twist as he works to take Patrick in. Patrick looks down and flushes hot at the sight of Jonny stretching around him. When he bottoms out, he picks up Jonny’s right leg and pushes both of them back, waiting patiently. “Tell me when,” he says, rubbing his thumbs into the hollows of Jonny’s knees.

Jonny shifts under him, hips flexing against the pillow, clenching and releasing on Patrick’s cock. Patrick sinks his teeth into his lower lip to keep from thrusting, and waits until Jonny’s face smoothes out. Jonny nods, and Patrick lets out a shuddering sigh as he starts moving, fucking Jonny in short, shivery-good strokes.

“Oh, fuck,” Jonny says, spreading his arms out and gripping at the comforter. “Fuck, it’s—” He groans, low and long, as Patrick shifts up and pushes in a little harder. Jonny’s eyes fall shut, lashes a dark circle against his cheeks.

“God,” Patrick says, shivering at the way Jonny’s shifting under him, the way he’s going a deeper red, the way his cock twitches and leaks as Patrick fucks in again and again. “I love you like this, so damn much.”

Jonny laughs, a little hysterical sounding, and reaches up to pull Patrick down to him. “I can’t believe you do this to me,” he says breathlessly. Patrick has to kiss him, tasting Jonny with a flick of his tongue and then watching the shifting pleasure across Jonny’s face as he fucks him, curled in close.

Jonny comes like that, hot and slick between their stomachs, swearing loudly through it. He brings his hands up to grip at Patrick’s ass, keeping Patrick from pulling away after Jonny’s done. Patrick groans and buries his face into the hot skin of Jonny’s neck, biting down and working his hips until everything goes tight and hot as he comes, spilling into Jonny.

They stay there, pressed chest-to-chest, Jonny’s legs a heavy weight against his arms, Jonny’s hands stroking steadily over his ass. When Jonny presses a kiss to his shoulder, Patrick shivers, cock sliding against Jonny’s hole. Jonny makes a small sound of protest, hands digging in, and tries to shift up.

“Wait,” Patrick says hoarsely. “I want….” He pushes up with a groan, keeping one of Jonny’s legs pushed up as he carefully pulls out.

“Wuh,” Jonny huffs, pushing up onto his elbows. “What are you doing?”

He’s red and open, and when Patrick presses in two fingers to the third knuckle, it takes no pressure at all. Patrick’s eyes dart back up to Jonny’s face on his sharp inhale, watching Jonny’s mouth work soundlessly as Patrick twists in deep and then pulls back to tug at his rim. Jonny shuts his eyes, still as a statue, but doesn’t protest. When Patrick looks back down and watches his own come drip out between his splayed fingers, he groans softly.

“Patrick,” Jonny says, barely a breath.

Patrick pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, sliding out from between Jonny’s legs and hauling himself up beside him. “I wanted to look.”

“Just look?” Jonny says skeptically, stretching out his legs with a little groan that goes straight to Patrick’s spent dick.

“For now,” Patrick admits, pressing his knuckles into Jonny’s ribs. Jonny makes a face and grabs him by the wrist, tugging until Patrick rolls onto his side and slings a leg over his, tucking his chin into Jonny’s shoulder. “There are a lot of things I want to try, still.”

“We have time,” Jonny says, sounding sleepy. His fingers are tracing circles on Patrick’s back, and Patrick shivers under the easy touch.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, eyes falling shut. “I guess we do.”

~

The bed’s empty when Patrick wakes up, but there’s a fresh glass of water on the bedside table closest to him, so he doesn’t waste time worrying Jonny’s fled his own apartment. He leans off the bed for his pants and fishes out his phone—and promptly winces at the number of missed calls and texts displayed on the lockscreen. Somebody must have tweeted something incriminating, then, but he’s too sleepy and content to find out exactly what. He downs the water and steals a t-shirt and boxers from Jonny’s drawers, stopping in the en suite to piss and brush his teeth, before wandering down the hall to the living room.

Jonny’s there, tucked into the corner of the couch with his coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. His laptop’s open next to him, and Patrick can see some poorly-focused photo of the club on a twitter background.

“You shouldn’t be doing this so early,” Patrick says.

Jonny looks up from his phone. “Somebody’s got to,” he says. It’s not snippy, though, just Jonny’s normal morning grumble. Patrick leans over the back of the couch and snaps the laptop shut before snagging Jonny’s phone from his hand. “Hey!”

“Somebody who actually knows how twitter works can deal with it,” Patrick says, putting Jonny’s phone on a side-table out of reach. “We’ll be fine, okay?”

“I know the media won’t—” Jonny starts, twisting around to meet Patrick’s eyes with a frown.

“Fuck the media,” Patrick says. “Fuck what they’re gonna say. Fuck what twitter says, fuck what Stan wants, or what Sharpy thinks, or what my sisters are gonna do, or what our parents will say— _we’re going to be fine_.”

Jonny grins, sharp and pleased. “You sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Patrick says fiercely. “It’s you and me, okay? We’ve got this. We always have.”

Jonny nods, intent, and Patrick ducks his head to kiss him once before straightening up. “There still coffee?”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, rolling to his feet. “Full pot.”

He follows Patrick into the kitchen and tops up his own mug, leaning back against the counter while Patrick digs out the cream.

“You want?” Patrick offers, putting the cream back when Jonny shakes his head.

“I’m not a safe choice, am I?” Jonny says when the door shuts.

“What?” Patrick says, turning back.

“I mean…” Jonny shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. “I was thinking yesterday that maybe I was just—easy. Safe. But it’s not, is it?”

Patrick starts to shake his head, but stops, reaching out for his coffee as he thinks about it. “You’re not safe in some ways,” he says after he’s taken a drink. “We fuck this up and it hurts both of our careers, and hockey…”

“—is hockey,” Jonny finishes, holding up his mug in a silent cheers.

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a small smile. “So you’re not—I don’t want this because it’s safe, because it’s _not_. But it’s—it _is_ easy, and I feel safe, with you.” He flushes, staring down at his coffee. “Even when things were confusing as hell, I still felt like you were the easiest person to be myself around. But maybe that kind of safe is the right kind, you know?”

Jonny nods slowly. “Yeah, I can—that makes sense.”

“It’s not for you, though,” Patrick says, matter-of-fact. “It’s not easy.”

“That’s not your fault, though,” Jonny says, and as much as Patrick wanted to hear Jonny deny it, it’s somehow just as good to hear him admit that this is hard in ways Patrick doesn’t quite get. Not yet, anyway.

“You’re not…” Patrick starts, trailing off in uncertainty.

Jonny frowns at him, tilting his head. “I’m not what?”

“You’re not doing this just because I asked, though, right?” Patrick asks. His fingers are tight to the porcelain of the mug, and he forces them to relax, turning it in his palms.

Jonny puts his mug down on the counter and comes up to Patrick, reaching between them to pry Patrick’s mug away and put it aside. “I’m not,” Jonny says seriously. “I want this, for me—even if it isn’t easy for me. I swear, okay?”

Patrick nods. “I believe you,” he says hoarsely.

“I’m not even going to suggest you fuck other guys,” Jonny says, tone serious but eyes crinkling up in the corners.

Patrick huffs a laugh and sags back against the counter. “Not even cause I’m all inexperienced? You don’t want to train me up?”

“I think I’ve already done that,” Jonny says with a smirk, catching Patrick’s hand before he can hit him in the ribs. “Pat—if you really want to, someday,” Jonny goes on, intent, smirk dropping away. “Then ask. But not yet.”

“We’ll have some time, right?” Patrick asks, fitting his hands to Jonny’s hips and tugging him closer.

Jonny grins. “A bit, yeah,” he says drily. Jonny ducks his head and presses his mouth to Patrick’s, a soft, easy kiss.

“That’s good, then,” Patrick says when Jonny pulls back, his smile broad. “I’ve got a lot left to learn.”

Jonny laughs and says, “We both do.”

~

THE END

~


End file.
